The Prince of Thieves
by Kagura
Summary: Someone's been robbing the rich to give to the poor, and rumor says it's Caspian. But he's been gone for years! So who's been masquerading as the missing prince? A hooded crusader, a fair maiden - both? It's up to Robin Hood... er, Caspian to find out!
1. It's Only a Paper Moon

Hey everyone, it's me! Or should I say, _us_. Yes, us. I am co-authoring a new Lucy/Caspian story with my beta reader and very good friend, Sany. Sany and Jenny, sitting in a tree, w-r-i-t-i-n-g. I decided to post the first chapter, since I'm waiting for the last two reviews to come in for chapter seventeen of 'Lucy and the Future King' (hint hint nudge nudge). Unlike LATFK, which is my work alone and will be fucking EPIC, this story will be rather short, maybe ten or fifteen chapters, and will actually be pretty canon. But here's a rather strange disclaimer for it.

Sany and I want you to treat this story like a piece of chocolate. What do we mean by that?

Well, when you eat a piece of chocolate, you don't really worry about where the chocolate was made, or how many workers handled it, or how many days it took to get to the store. You don't care about the chocolate's history, you just care about the chocolate - how it tastes, how rich it is, how it melts, how it smells. And when it's gone, you remember the chocolate as being good or bad, not the effort behind it.

What we mean is, don't worry about a back story, or lengthy explanations. Enjoy this story for what it is - a short and sweet period piece.

This is going to be a short story, not an epic poem. Just imagine that the original characters are playing dress-up. Don't ask any questions about a back story, because we might not be able to answer them.

Don't worry, I'm not abandoning LATFK. All I need is two more reviews, and the next chapter will be posted. Yes, I am laughing evilly right now.

And now, chapter one!

* * *

There were very few boats on the ocean as of late. The winter storms were just ending, and merely getting past the shoals was challenging. It was easy to run aground, or to capsize under the pounding waves. Few captains were seasoned enough to steer past the craggy shoals, and even fewer could navigate with no starlight. Schooling fish were scarce, and whaling was too dangerous in such uncertain weather. It was a foolish, wasteful endeavor to be out on the open water when there was no need.

But coming over the crystalline blue waves, a mere speck against the rising sun, was a handsome ship with a gilded prow shaped like the head of a dragon. She had a single mast, and one crisp white sail. In the crow's nest stood a man with wild dark hair falling around his shoulders, ruddy brown skin, and a full beard matted with salt. His keen black eyes were narrowed by the morning sun as he stared out over the ocean. Though his clothing was poor and tattered almost beyond repair, he commanded respect with a single, thoughtful glance. This was his ship.

"There's land off the starboard bow!" someone shouted up to him from the deck. He turned his face to the right, scanning the horizon until he spied the patch of tell-tale patch of green. Even though they were at least a league away, he could smell and see each pine tree. He could feel every blade of the returning grass. He heard the deer sprinting through the trees and tasted the first of the spring peaches.

His mouth spread in that roguish, self-satisfied grin so often seen on a sailor's face.

He was home.

"Let's take her in, boys!" Scaling down the mast with scarred and callous hands, he quickly took up position at the wheel, pulling the vessel towards the shore with a few determined spins.

"You're looking fairly confident." The hoarse and slightly slurred voice came up behind him, accompanied by heavy, uneven footsteps.

"I couldn't trust you to not steer us into a reef. Unless you have a doppelganger, you hit the bottle pretty hard last night."

"As did the rest of the crew. We were mourning our last night on this wretched boat." The other man didn't look too different from the one holding the wheel. He was sun baked and bearded, with long black hair woven into braids and dreadlocks.

"I believe you sing dirges when mourning, not songs about large-breasted, naked women."

"To be fair, she was married."

The man behind the wheel stroked his beard thoughtfully, brushing away some salt crusting over the corner of his mouth.

"Do you think she'll still be waiting?" With the din created by the waves and wind, it was almost hard to hear his question, but the other man heard it loud and clear.

"I don't think she really had any other choice. Who else would she wait for – her brother? It's not the same. Anyways, she is the last of your worries." Someone called out about tangled rigging, making the man with the dreadlocks shout out an obscenity in regards to his sailors' incompetence. As for the man steering the ship, he allowed himself one brief look of desperation and longing, one brief moment of weakness. Then, so quietly it was little more than a sigh, a name dropped from his lips like a hopeful prayer.

"Lucy."

* * *

_"Lucy! Lucy, come quick!" Caspian banged his fists against the tree trunk, rousing everyone within fifty feet from sleep. Everyone, except the one person he desperately needed to see. With time on the enemy's side, he could not afford to linger; but he needed to see the youngest Pevensie before he left, else his heart forever wonder._

_"By the stars above, please…" He trailed off as she emerged, small and fair and clearly unhappy to be awake. She wore a white nightgown that was only a few shades lighter than her skin. The dark circles under her eyes were matched by her dark, tight frown. Standing in the doorway that was only visible from inside the tree, Lucy yawned and rubbed her eyes._

_"One of us should be at the castle right now, and I know it isn't me." Her voice, quiet and slightly squeaky, was more beautiful than any ballad._

_"I have to leave."_

_"That's right. You need to leave me and head back to the castle."_

_He could tell by her confused expression that she could see the way his face fell, despite the darkness. "No. I need to leave Narnia. Right now."_

_Her gasp broke his heart and almost destroyed his will to leave her._

_"Why? What's happened?" When her voice went from a whisper to a slightly louder whisper, she stepped out into the night, closing the tree trunk's secret door. Her cheeks were alabaster in the pearlescent moonlight._

_"Prunapismia has birthed a son." How silly it all seemed, that a baby no bigger than a loaf of bread could have him fearing for his life. But now that Miraz had a boy of his own, Caspian's assassination was all but assured._

_"You cannot abandon us! You cannot leave me here!" Her sweet voice broke on a sob as her little hands fisted in his shirt. He winced and covered her mouth with his hand, as gently as he could in that moment._

_"If I don't leave, we're both dead." She would understand later, when she was grown up. He had a feeling she would have to grow up for both of them. "I promise to return," he uttered as his hand moved from her mouth to cup her cheek._

_"I don't believe you." And she didn't – Lucy was too honest to lie about something like that._

_"I know you don't, but believe me – I will return. And when I do, everything will be wonderful. We'll be queen and king together."_

_He felt the tear drops against his hand before he saw their silver trails. "How do I know that you won't start over somewhere else? That you won't get married and have babies and let your kingdom become mortally ill under Miraz's despotic rule?"_

_What did he have, besides the ring he never bought for fear she would say no? What could he possibly give her to assure her of his affection and regard for not only her, but the other Pevensie children, his own Telmarine people, and the old Narnians he had sworn to protect?_

_"I shall leave Destrier with you."_

_The black stallion was the only thing he would ever come back for – besides her._

"_I wouldn't risk taking him on the… I wouldn't risk having him break an ankle on the way to the docks." He meant to say 'I wouldn't risk taking him on the ship, for fear he wouldn't survive if it sank.' He knew that if he said that, she would tell him not to go._

_And he wouldn't, not if she asked him not to. He could see she knew that, by the sadness, regret, and resignation in her eyes. She knew of her power over him, and would not use it out of some moral or ethical code of honor – no matter how much he wished she would._

_"I will kill and eat your horse if you don't return." Again with the honesty, but she didn't say __when_ _he had to return, so he knew it to be an empty threat._

_"I promise you, here and now, that I will always return to you – even from death." Lucy looked like she wanted to shout at him and strike him to the ground, but instead, she leaned forward and hugged him as tightly as her thin arms would allow._

_"Please don't forget me. I couldn't bear it if you forgot me."_

_Then, for the first and maybe the last time, Prince Caspian kissed Lucy Pevensie under the trees in the Forbidden Forest. She was too young to understand why he kissed her, or what it meant for their future, but he needed it. He drew back within seconds of pressing his mouth against hers, staring down at her with fierce, dark eyes. Her own shone grimly with simultaneous anger and hope._

_"Good night," Caspian said as he handed her the reigns to his beloved stallion. Lucy took the leather straps and stroked her hand down the horse's soft neck._

_"Good night," she whispered in return as he drew away. Galloping up through the trees was Lord Drinian, who smiled sadly at Lucy as he pulled Caspian into the saddle. Then the two men were off, speeding towards the ruins of Cair Paravel, where a ship waited to take them away._

_"Good night, Prince Caspian." With that, she pulled on the correct knot that opened the invisible door to Trufflehunter's den. _

_Caspian and Drinian rode away through the night, leaving Narnia far behind._

* * *

"Lower the anchor! We use the row boats from here!" Drinian's voice was still slurred, but loud and commanding as he shouted orders to the crew. "The first thing I'm doing when I get on the shore is cutting these damn dreads."

Caspian didn't know what he would do first when he got off the boat, but he was pretty sure it involved retrieving his horse.

* * *

There we go! Chapter One is up!

Remember, two more reviews, and we'll have another chapter of LATFK!

The next chapter will be the work of Sany. I am so excited!

Ta ta for now,  
Jenny (and eventually Sany)


	2. A Lack of Color

Hey everybody! Here is another chapter baby, as promised. However, you guys need to hop to it and start reviewing! My fragile ego cannot suffer anymore blows!

Unless I am mistaken, I believe my stories were actually _rejected_, and weren't good enough for the people over at narniafanfiction(dot)com.

Oh well. I'm sure they had their reasons.

Hmph.

* * *

Lucy didn't own many dresses. There just wasn't enough money, time or space to keep a large wardrobe. Buying pricey fabrics was out of the question. She couldn't just traipse into Beruna and browse for silks or satins. There was no money to be had, and there was no way she could put her friends and family at risk.

So by the time Susan's funeral came around, she had to make do with a summer gown made of lilac cotton. It wasn't black, but it was the nicest frock she owned. Well, it used to be. The hem was muddied and the knees were stained green from the grass. They would be, considering how she had tossed herself on the ground, weeping after the last bit of dirt was spread over Susan's coffin.

Trumpkin and Trufflehunter could only watch in horror and dismay as Lucy wailed into her palms like a small child. No one dared to drag her away from the grave of her sister. Even as the other mourners went home, Lucy lay over crushed wildflowers, bawling into the meadow until her cheeks were ruddy and her voice was hoarse. She was a broken porcelain doll, out of place in her dainty, purple gown.

The sun set, dusky shades of purple bled into the sky, and every sane creature went to sleep; but Lucy wouldn't budge an inch. She had every right to sob and whimper, every right to lament for her fallen sister.

Like good soldiers, her two caretakers waited under the trees, not unaffected by the scene. Trufflehunter's face was twisted in agony and pity, while Trumpkin's kerchief was soaked through from crying and wiping his nose. As much as they wanted to comfort their precious charge, it wasn't what she needed.

Ultimately, Lucy would shed all her tears, and her throat would be too raw to keep howling. Her entire body was disjointed and sore. She doubted she had the energy to get up. Yet she had no desire to move. This was the closest she would ever be to her sister from that point on. Susan would always be six feet out of reach, six feet away from the sun, from life – from Lucy.

"Oh Susan," she whispered roughly into the dirt under her lips. "Is Aslan's country beautiful? Is it summer there too? Are the apple trees blooming?" She, of course, received no answer, no warm reply from her beautiful and magnificent sister. Apart from her weary question, the only sound accompanying her was the last song of a nightingale. The silence only made her ache that much more.

Briefly looking to the sky above her, she picked out the few white stars scattered over their shadowy backdrop. They were far too cheery and mellow for such a disastrous evening. Everything was. It was summer, after all. Just a few weeks earlier, Lucy and Susan had chased each other through patches of lavender and sweet balm. But then Susan got sick, and…

Lucy could still smell the lemon on her dress, and it made her long for that day – for that place.

"There's a place for us, somewhere a place for us," she crooned unevenly to a broken daisy some inches from her mouth. Her song, her anguish … It was all for her sister - Susan loved lullabies. "Peace and quiet, and open air wait for us… somewhere."

_There's a time for us, someday a time for us.  
Time together with time to spare,  
Time to learn, time to care.  
Someday, somewhere._

_We'll find a new way of living.  
We'll find a way of forgiving.  
Somewhere._

_There's a place for us.  
A time and place for us.  
Hold my hand, and we're halfway there.  
Hold my hand, and I'll take you there._

_Somehow,  
Someday,  
Somewhere._

* * *

"Caspian! Stop kissing that dirt!" Drinian shouted at the young prince, who was actually kissing some dirt. The price threw himself down as soon as the row boat hit the beach. There was sand in his beard, in his hair, and most likely in his mouth.

"I'm home, Drinian! Why wouldn't I reacquaint myself with my beloved mother country?" Caspian rolled onto his back, laughing at the sky as he wiggled like a dog begging for a belly rub.

"Would you kiss Lucy with that mouth?"

"I will kiss her every inch of her as soon as I can."

Drinian shook his head reproachfully, but inside his heart he couldn't agree more. Well, not about kissing Lucy – Caspian would kill him if he even alluded to it. But being home, after so many years away… there were no words that could describe his bliss, his joy… His overwhelming desire to bathe and shave.

"Get off the ground or I will drag you to the river myself. I have lived with this scruff for over four years."

The other crewmates were laughing at their prince, who was too busy giggling himself to notice their glee. In that single and unremarkable moment, beneath the beard and the salt, Drinian saw the boy Caspian once was. He saw the youth, vigor and candor the prince had left on the shores of Cair Paravel. He saw a man worthy enough to marry Queen Lucy the Valiant. However, that man's worth was quickly disappearing under layers of sand.

"Get. _Up_."

Caspian stared up at his perturbed and anxious captain with a cheeky, toothy grin (which was just as white as when he left). "Give me a moment, won't you? I'm just so happy right now. Don't rob me of this moment." The sand was just so soft, so… _Narnian_.

"I would wait, but I have a feeling Lucy's _husband_ is _beating _her with… who knows, a cast-iron muffin tin."

Drinian was pinned under a glare so fierce that he actually shivered in fear.

"If any man lays so much as a _feather_ on her, they will be run through on my sword. They will lose their eyes to my fists, and they will find themselves fodder for the beasts. They easiest way to get rid of a body is to leave it in the middle of the woods."

"You would kill a man just for a woman?"

"I'm already an outlaw; it wouldn't be out of character."

Drinian exhaled noisily. "You know, you really should've bought a whore when we were at port. Being on a boat full of men has made you just a _little_ bit possessive."

* * *

It was midnight before Lucy finally came inside, and it was only because she fell asleep. Glenstorm had to carry in her lifeless, sullied body into the tree. If the day weren't so tragic, seeing him try to maneuver around the small house would've been hilarious. It was like watching a walrus try to work its way onto a lily pad.

Despite several near falls and more than a little swearing, the three gentlemen managed to lay Lucy out on her bed. Every trace of Susan was gone from the bedroom they once shared. The flu she suffered through could stick to any kind of fabric, so all of her bed linens, clothes and even her mattress were burned. Not even her dolls and stuffed toys escaped the fire.

All that remained was Susan's hope chest. It was a charming box, carved from the finest mahogany. Laurel branches made of mother-of-pearl were inlaid into the wood, and Susan's name was etched just above the case's lock. The only person who had a key was Lucy, and Trufflehunter had decided it was best not to ask her for it.

It was the first thing Lucy saw when she awoke some hours after being put to bed. The sun had yet to rise, but the candle Trumpkin left for her reflected off the case's lacquered surface. The brass bolt glittered like gold under the little flame. The loopy cursive writing slithered like it was _alive_.

"Oh, Susan," Lucy murmured. "I've been very hopeful so far. Now for the first time I think we're going wrong... This was unexpected. What do I do now?"

"_Do you remember what Corin said about you?"_

* * *

"_He called me a tomboy!"_

_Susan laughed and nodded her head vigorously. "And said that you weren't a proper queen like __**me**__!"_

_Lucy plucked an apple from the tree she was sitting under, and chucked it at her sister. Susan caught it easily, which ruffled her sister's feathers beyond belief._

"_Nice catch there, oh proper queen."_

_Susan polished the apple against her gown, which was noticeably cleaner than Lucy's._

"_But Narnia doesn't need a proper queen right now, Lucy. They need a warrior, a shield maiden - a tomboy. Lucy… I need you to make me a promise, right here and now."_

_Lucy giggled at her sister's serious expression. "Anything you want, Queen Susan the Gentle."_

"_Promise me that you will fight, even when I cannot."_

* * *

"_I promise_."

Lucy's determination became as hard and unyielding as carbon steel. But this bravery made her foolish, and even suicidal on a certain level. A sort of quiet ferocity replaced her sorrow, at least momentarily. Her eyes were wild and set on the lock, and without even realizing it, her dress was hastily pulled off and thrown at the wall. Before it even fell to the ground, Lucy was sliding the key into the catch. Her finger's slipped on the ruby set in the key's bow, but the lock was well-oiled and came open very quickly.

As she opened the box, a new wave of grief washed over her. Susan's beloved crown of golden vines and blooming flowers was just as brilliant now, as it had been thirteen-hundred years before. A strand of black hair caught in one of circlet's blossoms almost undid her resolve, but she told herself that the hair was not Susan. Susan's earthly body was no more.

Moving past that symbol of Susan's sovereignty, she pulled out what she really needed – Susan's bow and quiver. Her sister had been a master archer, but like Lucy, had always been told to stay out of the fray.

They used to listen to such warnings.

Lucy closed the lid before she gave in and spent the rest of the evening browsing through memories. She had work to do. Grabbing her own dagger, but not her healing flask, she quickly donned a rather curious outfit. Susan and Lucy, ever since returning to Narnia, had always worn gowns. They liked being girlish, and were, after all, the queens of old. They had to dress the part (though their kingdom had been usurped).

So to even own a pair of pants would be out of the ordinary. Yet there was Queen Lucy, pulling on a pair of black leather riding breeches, that were obviously cut for a chap – and not a young queen with gently flaring hips. They hung loosely on her slim legs, but as soon as she put them on, she immediately cut a more boyish figure. A loose shirt made of green wool followed, and then a gray quilted jerkin. Once she was completely outfitted, her fine and feminine figure was barely visible beneath her male attire. She had the body of a man, albeit a slim one.

The boots Edmund had worn as a young king now fit her own feet, and slid easily into a saddle's stirrups. Her transformation was almost complete. All that remained was her hair and face, and they were both hidden under a hooded cloak.

All that fabric did not just hide a queen.

It shielded the true identity of the Night Watchman.

Slipping past her guardians was depressingly easy. They lay passed out on the sofas, exhausted from the day's events. Lucy did not linger to say goodbye or to give them one last loving look. As soon as she was out the door, she was darting through the forest, towards the prairie where she kept her last memory of Caspian.

Destrier did not grow lazy or contented while his owner was away. Over the years, Lucy and Susan had taken him on many nightly treks. If anything, he was fitter than ever.

Seeing Lucy, the baroque Friesian trotted towards her with a loving whinny, and a headstrong toss of his inky mane. Destrier was a war horse, capable of carrying a rider laden with armor. He was certainly more than able of carrying two slight women.

"This is our last ride, my dear friend," Lucy lamented as she strapped him into his saddle. She had tried teaching to him to converse, but he was either too proud, or just not bold enough to talk back. That was fine though. His actions spoke louder than words.

Destrier instinctively nuzzled his face against Lucy's shoulder. He would always be there for her.

"I think we have one more charge left in us."

There would be no dawn for Lucy, or the Night Watchman, but there might be one for Caspian.

After all, to conquer death…

You only need to die.

* * *

"Have you no shame, my prince?!"

"None at all!"

And he didn't, not when it came to getting clean. Caspian was bathing naked in a stream, bare to anyone who cared to look. That is, if they could get past Drinian, who was keeping guard over the young prince. After all, it was only fair. Caspian had done the same for Drinian just a half hour earlier.

Shivering in the cool, clear water, Caspian scraped away the beard and the salt with a very sharp dagger, and a foamy lather of lanolin, shea butter and coconut soap. The skin beneath the crusty scruff was surprisingly dark. It was better that way however. He certainly didn't want a two-toned farmer's tan when he returned to Lucy.

Asides from the barest hint of crow's feet, his face was unblemished. It was older, but not so older that he looked aged and withered. Even without the beard, he had the face of a man. Thankfully it was matched by a body that had filled out since his departure. Caspian, like a true man, now had muscles in appropriate places, like his back, shoulders and stomach. He even had a little bit of hair on his chest. However, unlike some of the other sailors, it wasn't overwhelming. Drinian had 'natural insulation', to say it politely.

Years of grime and brine were washed down the stream with a simple wash cloth and lots of bubbles. This was the first real bath he'd had since… he didn't want to think about that, because it would probably make him gag.

Just as he scrubbed his thighs clean with the sudsy towel, he could hear a rustling in the bushes just behind him.

"Don't worry, Drinian, I'm almost… Whoa!"

It was not Drinian who was spying on him, but a blushing beauty of… abundant proportions, to say the least. The plump young woman was gaping at him with obvious delight and hunger. To be honest, she looked like she was raping the young man with her eyes.

"Um… uh… hello?" Caspian crossed his hands over his lap, and crouched until he was waist deep in the creek – which was acutely painful for some of his extremities.

"Oh, your highness!" The rosy lipped, fleshy maiden crooned lovingly. "I did not mean to spy, but to look upon a hero, even if he's naked… there's no shame in that, is there?"

"I suppose not," he giggled nervously as he tried massaging the feeling back into his hips and inner thighs. That water was biting cold. "But what do you mean by hero?"

The lass chuckled as if he had said something utterly stupid. "Oh Prince Caspian, don't be shy. Stealing from the rich to give to the poor makes you a most noble hero!"

That certainly shocked his senses back to functionality.

"What do you mean I steal from the rich to give to the poor?!" He shouted at her as he shot up to his feet. Being naked and thoroughly male from head to toe, that stout young woman got quite a show, and nearly fainted from the ecstasy of such a handsome figure.

"Sire, you are too humble! The tales of your deeds have spread far and wide," she managed to breathe lustily as she devoured his form with hungry eyes.

Caspian could hear Drinian rushing to help him, but he questioned the girl further.

"What deeds?"

"Sire, ever since Miraz's son was spawned, you have robbed the taxman's coaches, returning the money to those who need it. Widows, children, soldiers returning from deployment… you've helped _all_ of us. There's no need to be shy." Her last statement carried a double entendre that would have been alluring, were he not in love with someone else.

"I have, have I?"

Drinian stumbled the steep embankment, and when he reached the thin beach, he was assaulted by Caspian naked backside, and a large woman who was drooling.

"Good heavens."

* * *

Yeah, yeah, I know. "Somewhere" is the product of _West Side Story_, which did not come out in the 1930s. Work with me, people. It fit in pretty well with that whole scene.

On that same not... this story _could_ be considered canon, because it is very much based on the books and movies, but I am taking some serious liberties with... honestly, everything.

As for co-authoring this, I'll try it another time. Sany is charming, but busy, and I don't mind working on this story.

Please, boost my fragile ego and review.

Review.

Review.

REVIEW.

By the way, there were several song quotes in this chapter.

Can you find them?


	3. By The Boab Tree

This is unbeta'ed.

Shoot me.

* * *

  
"That certainly was a peculiar exchange."

"What was, Drinian?"

"That conversation we just had with that buxom, peaches and cream young lady."

"I'm trying to block that particular memory, thank you very much."

It had taken a while, but Drinian had finally chased off the corpulent maiden (by threatening to find her parents). By then Caspian was painfully cold and embarrassingly small, and had to be physically dragged from the river. Drinian even had to help him on his horse. The ride back to camp was very stiff for Caspian, and very amusing for his captain.

"You ride like you have a pole up your ass."

"It's a penis, not a pole, and it hurts more than a stab wound." Though they were off the boat, they were still fluent in the language of sailors.

Drinian laughed good-naturedly, but inside he was lost in thought. Caspian, while he was a handsome and strapping young man, was hardly unique. He looked almost like every other boy in Narnia. It was common and fashionable for young men to wear their hair longer than their elders. Nearly every Telmarine had dark eyes and skin – there were a few who were blessed with hazel or green eyes. If it weren't for his princely status, Caspian would be generic.

There was a good chance that someone would masquerade as the prince, but that was unlikely if Drinian's assumptions were correct. Miraz loved murdering those who committed treason, even those who committed treason against his loathed nephew. So it was very doubtful that _anyone_ would do _anything_ in the prince's name. This meant that whoever was stealing had convinced people that they were Caspian, without doing anything at all.

"Caspian," Drinian began slowly. "What did you do that night we left?"

The prince laughed. "I went to see Lucy, you know that. You gave me a ride."

Drinian did remember that. The ride to the boat was very awkward, since Caspian cried the whole way. But that wasn't it. That wasn't a factor in this equation. Drinian knew that Lucy was in safe and very cautious hands. The Old Narnians would never endanger Aslan's beloved queen. Sure, by now she was young and plucky, but Lucy was always reigned in.

"Did you do anything else?"

Another laugh. "I kissed her!"

And boy did he love bragging about it. The rest of the ride passed quietly, with Drinian thinking, and Caspian smiling dreamily. Somebody obviously was thinking about a woman.

Once they reached their camp, Caspian, much to his chagrin, needed help down from his horse. Several sailors chuckled openly, and Drinian had to hide his smile as he lead the prince's ride away.

"Good girl, Šiwa," he crooned to the dapple-grey mare as he lead her to her feeding bucket. And then it hit him.

Šiwa was not Caspian's horse.

Destrier was.

* * *

"You mean to tell me, that a little pink-faced girl, who weighs eighty pounds… She's the Night Watchman?"

"No, your highness – I've been trying to tell you the exact _opposite_."

Glozelle was not a night owl. He had just turned forty, he'd been a general for fifteen years, and all he wanted to do after spending six months in Calormen was _sleep_. But he was a good soldier, and when the order came to hunt the Night Watchman, he was right there, sword in hand. Rumors swirled of the caped crusader, and they were all favorable. He was handsome. He was tall. He was a wonderful lover. Glozelle knew most of these to be false, but that the sentiment behind them was true.

When Caspian disappeared, Miraz was free to do as he wished. Taxes were raised, property was confiscated, and military service was now mandatory for young man. Without the prince to reign him in, Miraz immediately went on the offensive. Miles of territory had been 'confiscated' from Archenland, without its king's notice. Worse than that, Miraz had begun cutting down forests, to build his bridges and barracks.

"This can't be right."

"It _isn't_ right."

The description had been plain enough. A large, abnormally bulky man, armed with a bow and arrows, had been terrorizing tax wagons by night for nearly four years. What he found was anything but.

As he stalked the dark alleys and quiet street corners of Beruna, he heard his soldiers calling for him. They had found the prince's black warhorse, except it was running, without a rider, back to the Forbidden Forest. This meant that the Night Watchman was still there, ready to be capture.

But the black-clad figure he slammed against the wall… was the prettiest woman he had seen in years. Her eyes were large and wide-set, her cheekbones were high, and her mouth was kissably pink. Also, she was probably a foot-and-a-half smaller than him; and she had no bow and quiver – just a dagger that wasn't nearly effective enough. She couldn't even get it out of her scabbard. This was no murderer. It was just a girl.

"She is to be executed."

"But she hasn't done anything, sir! She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

As soon as he'd (gently) lead her away in chains, he went straight to Miraz – who slept naked, apparently, and didn't feel like putting on clothing while he heard the news. Glozelle, being deeply disturbed and possibly blind, kept his focus on the wall just behind the king. He had no desire to see a naked king and his manhood… or would it be kinghood?

"General Glozelle," Miraz said in his usual gravelly voice. "I need to set an example. Most people believe that the prince has been behind these attacks. He hasn't been. I want to show them that their hero is one of them, and they can die as easily as him."

Glozelle bristled and narrowed his eyes. "But it's a _her_."

"Then buy her a dress."

* * *

It was Lucy's first night ever in a prison cell, and it was terrifying. Sitting in the corner of that murky cell was making her rethink her bravado. She wasn't as sure as when she started. Her punishment, death, wasn't so scary. Dying was.

The whispers fading into the room should've been just as scary, but they were anything but. The two men were protecting her. That wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to quietly lead her to the gallows, and kill the legend with her. But that man, that Glozelle, had done nothing but defend her honor. He claimed that her silence wasn't an admission of guilt, but rather a pillar of ladylike delicacy.

And he was opening the door to her cell. What little light there was disappeared behind his large, imposing frame. He was by far the broadest man she'd ever seen. Then again, the only man she'd ever seen was Caspian – her brothers had left when she turned eleven. They went to seek Aslan to reclaim their throne. So far it didn't seem to be working.

Glozelle stalked into the room with his hands folded behind his back, pacing steadily in front of her.

"I don't won't to charge you with anything," he said after some minutes. "You didn't have the horse, nor did you have any money. You didn't have a bow and quiver, and you certainly aren't big enough. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

That was a lie, and she knew it, but still she kept quiet. Saying that it was her alone would've been a lie, but saying that Susan once helped would've opened a new can of worms. The forest would be scoured, the trees would be burned, and the people who'd taken care of her would die.

"But you are going to be executed."

Why did he sound so soft, so wistful? Glozelle was the scurge of Calormen, the sting of Archenland, and the son of Telmar. He was kind of like a retriever – golden, loyal and utterly trainable. This man was probably the only person left who would willingly join Miraz in burning the world.

"You need to say something. If you chose, you can go before a tribunal, and plead your innocence." He spoke to her again, but she never said anything, as if she hadn't heard.

He sighed and crouched on one knee, presumably to get a better look at her.

"Is there anything I can get you? Something to eat or drink?" His eyes were so black in that dark room, but there was a warmth there. He may have been a good soldier, but he was not without honor.

"You could talk to me. I'm feeling a little bit lonely." There were and honesty in her voice, and to Glozelle it was the most saddening thing he'd ever heard. This little girl was so… tragic. Such beauty was to be destroyed with nothing more than a single swing with a heavy ax. What could he say to her that would be of any comfort?

"Would you like to hear a story? I just heard one called, uh… 'The True Bride'."

"That would be nice. I've never heard that one."

Hence, Glozelle spent the night telling stories, without ever getting tired.

* * *

"That's crazy talk, Drinian. Lucy would never sell Destrier, and there's no way anyone would steal him." Caspian laughed and looked at Drinian with a patronizing smile. "The young woman was just mistaken. I think she just wanted a free show."

"Your highness, while you are good-looking, you're really nothing special. You look like everyone else most of the time. But, Destrier… Destrier is a marvel onto himself." Caspian smiled and sighed absentmindedly. There was no finer beast than his stallion, no animal more magnificent. The only creature he loved more was Lucy. Even his countrymen came second.

Caspian waved Drinian off with a laugh and tossed more wood on the fire. Night had fallen, and it was getting chilly. His tent was set up for a good night's rest, but sleep was far from upon him. Without Drinian breathing the idea down his neck, he actually considered it.

Destrier really was something to behold. He had a large, baroque frame perfect for an armor-suited rider. His hooves were feathered, and he stood an imposing sixteen-hands tall. Caspian, before his departure, had many horses, but none of them matched the pedigree or regality of Destrier. The horse could scare a man stiff just by tipping his head. Thus, it was not surprising that he was arrogant and brash. Only two people could handle him – Caspian, because of his firm hand and commanding presence, and Lucy, because she was sweet and constantly snuck him apples and sugar cubes.

There was no other horse like him in all of Narnia. In fact, Caspian won him in a bet from a Tisroc, may he live forever. There was no mistaking Destrier for any other horse. So, if somebody was riding him, it was perfectly logical to assume that said rider was Caspian.

Or Lucy.

* * *

"Do you have a family? Any… brothers or sisters that could retrieve your body?" It was a few hours before sunrise, and Glozelle had yet to leave his post. Whoever the girl was, she was thoroughly charming and perfectly calm. It was an amazing thing, that she was so quiet and prepared for the morning.

"You know that criminals aren't allowed to be buried. It's called a funeral by crows, unless I am mistaken." Her smile was serene. Whatever secret she was hiding, she was prepared to die for it.

"I would rescue your corpse, and give it a proper burial. You haven't confessed to anything. Hence you aren't guilty of anything."

The fair-skinned young woman regarded him with a thoughtful frown. "Would you do so because you believe I am innocent, or because I am a woman?"

He could not stop her execution, much as he wanted to. He had his own neck to worry about. So, since she was about to die, he felt that he could be honest with her. "I would do it because you are a woman. I'm a soldier. I don't believe in violence against women or children. It's uncivilized."

"Then would you save me?"

Glozelle swallowed.

"No."

* * *

Review? Please? Now?


	4. Titania

The incident with the corpulent maiden was both amusing and unnerving. Drinian's sailors laughed at Caspian's nightmarish ordeal, but it raised a new problem. With their whereabouts now known, the beach was no longer a safe place to rest. So they sailed the short distance to Cair Paravel, and anchored their ship on the far side of the island, where no Telmarine was brave enough to venture.

All around the ruins, the men were roasting fish over small camp fires while they set up laundry lines made of spare rope from the Dawn Treader's rigging. Some had set up rough and ready beds beneath broken arches, their palettes crushing the soft summer grass and sweetly scented wildflowers. Dice were being thrown around on what remained of the marble flooring, and a few sailors were even using blades of broken glass to shave.

"She probably has a mouth as big as her stomach," Drinian told Caspian as he shook out his bedroll. "The last thing we need is some loud wench telling all her friends she saw the crown prince's unclothed rear end."

As captain and future king, Drinian and Caspian's camp site was the most private and nicest to be had. It used to be the women's garden, where only the queens were allowed to take tea. While no longer manicured and flourishing, there was a still a feminine touch present, even after a millennium of neglect. Untamed rose bushes choked the low, stone walls, and fragrant herbs, once planted in neat rows, now grew wildly. In the center of the garden was an apple tree, large and heavy with fruit. It provided the weary sailors a flowering roof, where collared doves would sing them to sleep.

But Drinian was talking to himself, for Caspian had gone wondering. He had a purpose in leaving Drinian to rest, but he was wandering none the less. He weaved between broken clay pots and patches of barren strawberry and meadow buttercup, careful not to trample any bloom under his heavy boots. For each petal was beloved of the greatest queens of Narnia, his wonderful female friends.

Caspian steps slowed nearly to a stop when the ground beneath his feet grew muddy. Humming a soft lullaby, he looked down, whereupon he saw a small, low lying thicket of blue flowers with oval leaves – brooklime. It only grew in marshes or shallow water. The Pevensie girls had it planted in their fountains, in place of lotus plants or lily pads. Grinning, he knelt down and dug his fingers into the wet ground. His calloused fingertips met rough granite. He was close.

With a renewed sense of vigor and hunger, he marched the few last meters to the very heart of the fountain, his heels squishing into the muck with each step forward. Thirteen-hundred years of neglect and decay had sunk the once proud and polished fountain, until all that remained was the water, and the statue in the center.

Carved in marble was Queen Lucy the Valiant, in all her cold, white splendor. She was not the child he'd met so long ago, but the glorious queen she'd once been, and would be again.

He'd never seen any depictions of her as an adult. She was… taller than he expected. Lucy had always been a petite pixie, but the statue was at least five-foot-eight. Caspian, on a good day, was six-feet-tall.

Caspian's dark-eyed gaze lingered lovingly on her lean hips, slim shoulders and long neck. Asides from her perfect breasts, her figure was rather boyish and trim, all sinew and long limbs. In men's clothing, she'd probably look like a very skinny boy.

Some dirt covered the statue's polished face, so, with upmost love and regard, Caspian reached out and gently smoothed away the soil from her cheeks. They were higher than child Lucy's, the hollows below them more pronounced and feminine. Underneath her already scant baby fat was a womanly, almost elfin and mischievous face. She wasn't a great beauty like Susan, and she never would be. Susan was a striking, raven-haired ice goddess. Lucy was a warm, soft summer nymph – a giggling tomboy weaving between oak trees as she played.

"I've been in love with you ever since I met you," Caspian whispered as he brushed his knuckles over the statue's stony and unyielding mouth. "My feelings haven't faded in all these years apart. I remember our first encounter."

"I thought you were a fairy."

**

* * *

**

_Caspian's mother was Queen Constantina, and on this morning, she was very mad. She stood in her changing room, wearing nothing but a white cotton shift and fur trimmed slippers. The High Queen of Narnia should have been wearing a fine gown of red silk, for it was laid out carefully on her purple-dyed velvet divan. But the dress's seven silver flounces were spotted with black ink and little fingerprints, much too small to belong to her, or any of her servants. The only person who was small enough, and had access to her wardrobe, was her beloved crown prince. He'd been learning advanced calligraphy that afternoon._

_ Queen Constantina tightened her corset's front lacings and bent over the now soiled, once magnificent gown. Brushing several long, black sausage curls over her shoulder, she fingered the ink freckled layers of her petticoat. Somebody had written 'Caspian was here' on the delicate chiffon._

_ Constantina's hands began to shake in rage and her jet eyes narrowed dangerously. Taking in a deep and shuddering breath, she stood up, put her hands on her hips, and bellowed out a single word._

_ "CASPIAN!"_

_ Caspian had a keen sense of hearing, but his powers of deduction were even keener. While ruining his mother's garment was very fun at the time, as soon as the ink had dried, he realized that death was imminent. So before the queen even knew he was gone, Caspian was on his horse and flying across the open plane, with the hopes of hiding in the forbidden forest of Narnia, where ghosts worshipped the darkness and giants snacked on little boys._

_ His mother was by far more frightening than any ghoul or abnormally large person. Besides, the tales of monsters and spirits were circulated by timid soldiers, who weren't brave enough to go there themselves. He was brave enough, more than brave enough actually. But not so brave that he could face the wrath of his Mama._

_ Caspian dug his heels into Destrier's side, urging him on as they approached the river. The black war horse was far too big for the young boy. It was like straddling a picnic table. The prince had his hands wrapped tightly around the bridle, and he was pressed against the horse's neck, which was almost as wide as his waist. He had to keep his thighs pinned to the horse's side, otherwise he would have slid right off._

_ He loved that huge, impossible to ride horse though. It was a gift from his father, and someday Caspian would be just as big and just as ferocious as his colt. But for now, he was a little boy riding a horse that was too big, over a distance that was too far._

_ Destrier hooves flew over the grass, pulling divots and leaving grooves under his massive horseshoes. But the tan-faced boy clung faithfully, and together they somehow made it to the banks of the Great River._

_ It truly was a great river, wide and blue and unfathomable. The water was crystal clear, and the sand at the bottom was white as snow, but he still saw mystery where the reeds cast shadows over the surface._

_ "Is Mother really so scary?"Caspian asked Destrier as he hugged Destrier fearfully. "I'm only thirteen-years-old. There could be bears or panthers."_

_ All around Caspian, the trees seemed to grow larger and more threatening. They creaked and groaned, and spoke to each other in a language Caspian would never be fluent in. _

_ Destrier blustered and tossed his head arrogantly, and started clomping through the shallows. Apparently he was brave as well._

_ "Don't! Please! No!" Caspian begged as he pulled back on the reigns, but Destrier kept onward, as if pulled by some invisible force. The prince's stomach condensed into a single knot, and started to rise in his throat. If he were to get off now, Destrier would run off and he would be swept away by the current._

_ "If I am to die now," he whispered to no one, "At least it won't be at the hands of my mother. That's not a very dignified end. My name would be forever slandered."_

_ Caspian's booted heels skimmed the water. He hoped no water spirits would drag him down and drown him. "Thank you," he told them when they didn't. It was a small blessing, but he would take it._

_ Soon they had crossed the Fords of Beruna. Destrier cared not a whit as he sauntered haughtily into the forest with his head held high. The colt truly was a great and noble steed, even if his owner was slightly less impressive._

_ They were swallowed by trees so close to each other that they blotted out the sun and put the air on ice._

_ "Fuck me," Caspian said crudely. He wasn't sure what the word meant, but it was something his guards said when they were angry or surprised. It seemed appropriate at the moment._

_ As they moved through the dense forest, it stopped being frightening and started just being boring. It was dark and dank, and not an animal was to be seen, but there weren't any goblins or dark specters. If there were, they were certainly very quiet and shy._

_ "I should've brought a book or something." He sighed. "I rode for half a day, just so I could go hiking?"_

_ Some hours passed in this uninteresting and dreary way with trees giving way to more trees. Occasionally a green fern added some color to the brown dullness. Sometimes he swore he heard a squirrel, but since squirrels were just rats with long fluffy tails, they couldn't hold his interest._

_ But then the scenery began to change. Wild grasses started peeking through the rotting leaves, and the trees thinned to the point where he could see that the sky was blue. The sound of tinkling water filled the air, and he knew a creek would be nearby, as moss was growing on rocks and tree trunks._

_ "Oh good. We have to cross more water. Maybe we should turn back."_

_ Unsurprisingly, there was a creek, and it was too deep to cross without wetting his breeches. But on the other side was a sunny field, a kind of oasis. In the center of it was a solitary oak tree, and from that tree hung a swing made of white rope and a sanded plank._

_ "What's that doing there?" he asked his horse, who didn't answer. Destrier was the strong silent sort. Caspian rolled his eyes and tried to dismount, but his foot missed the bridle completely. Gasping, he fell flat on his back, the breath escaping his chest in one whoosh. His head knocked into a root, and everything sort of went black for a few seconds._

_ "Fuck me again!" he yelled out as he gripped his black hair in frustration. His eyes screwed shut in agonizing pain, and it felt like his skull was going to explode. All the blood began rushing around too quickly for his veins to handle effectively._

_ Destrier snorted and started munching on some clover at the base of a River Oak. A dress was draped over a low branch, alongside a flowing white blouse. It waved like a flag in the wind, or a ribbon from maypole._

_ "There's a naked young lady in the vicinity, Destrier, or I hit my head harder than I thought." Caspian blinked and grumbled as he turned onto his side, so he could rest his cheek on the cold ground. "Tell her I'm asleep if she comes back."_

_ "You shouldn't fall asleep if you've hit your head," a soft feminine voice called from the reeds. "You might never wake up again!"_

_ Caspian's eyes opened slowly. There was a girl treading water just a few feet from him, but she wasn't naked. She was wearing some sort of pink undergarment, and it was only a few shades darker than her milk pale skin. Her long brown hair clung wetly to her neck and shoulders. She was at most ten-years-old._

_ "Are you some sort of fairy?" Caspian breathed in wonder. Maybe there was some truth to the rumored haunting._

_ "Only if you want me to be one." She waded onto the beach and pulled herself up the slight bluff, using some hanging vines for rope. The slip only came down to her knees. Her feet were muddy. "Are you bleeding? Can you see clearly?"_

_ "I'm not sure," he admitted as she knelt by his side. She was so skinny and small, and kind of bony, much like he imagined a fairy would look. "I don't think you should be here."_

_ She smiled and reached out to touch the back of his head. A shiver ran down his spine as she stroked her smooth, wet fingers through his hair._

_ "It's not bleeding, but you do have a rather large bump growing there." Her accent did not come from his Narnia. While he rolled his "R's", she neglected them entirely. Rather became 'rahtha', and large was 'lodge'. Caspian had to focus intently on her mouth just to figure out what she was saying. He had a feeling she also pronounced 'poor' as 'paw'._

_ "Please speak more slowly. It's hard enough to understand you without a splitting headache."_

_ This made her frown archly and yank a fistful of his hair, so hard she almost pulled his scalp away from his skull._

_ Caspian hissed through his teeth and swatted at her stomach. "Stop it , wench! Or I'll have you arrested!"_

_ "It's called a non-rhotic accent, you twit, and it's very common where I come from!"_

_ He finally got a sturdy hold on her wrists and pulled her fingers away._

_ "Well it's just abnormal around here! And don't pull my hair again, or I'll push you back in the water!" Caspian shoved her hands into her lap and turned onto his back again._

_ She tossed her head back as proudly as Destrier had. "You would throw a lady into a brook?"_

_ With the pain in his head easing, Caspian could get a better look at the water witch. She was thin like a birch tree, but fair as a swan. At thirteen, girls were nothing but giggling, scheming monsters in impractical dresses, but at least she was nice to look at._

_ "No," Caspian huffed as he brushed his short hair away from his forehead. "I wouldn't do that to you. But you shouldn't pull your prince's hair. I'm pretty sure you could be executed for that."_

_ Her eyes widened slightly, but then she shrugged her slight shoulders and smoothly got to her feet. "You need to go home then. I'm sure that someone is looking for you, and there will be the devil to pay if they find out you're here."_

_ "What's the devil? Is it currency where you come from? Is it made of gold?"_

_ Unlike any girl he'd ever met, she reached out so she could help him stand up. All the girls he knew where inconsiderate, but here she was offering help, even after he threatened her. Deeply confused, but grateful anyways, he gently slid his palm against hers and grasped her fingers. His hand was bigger than hers, and much scratchier. He was taller than her too, but that was because she was so young. Maybe she'd be big one day too._

_ "The devil is evil, and you never want to encounter him. He's…" She trailed off when she noticed Caspian hadn't let her hand go. He didn't know why he held on. Maybe it was because her knuckles were smooth like the water she'd just emerged from._

_ "Sorry!" Caspian snapped his hand back and rubbed it on his pants. She smiled._

_ "It's nothing really. But you should go home. Now." The girl curtsied and turned her back on him. She took the dress from the oak tree's bough and started walking towards the creek._

_ "I'll escort you back to Beruna. They say these woods are dangerous, full of…" He paused. If he said ghosts, he'd sound absolutely girly. "Lions, tigers… even bears."_

_ She giggled cutely and cast a sly look over her shoulder. "Oh my!" Another giggle. "I live here, so don't worry about me."_

_ Caspian frowned and followed after her, grabbing her shoulder and turning her around as soon as she was close. She looked reasonably surprised, but she didn't move his hand. "Stop lying. I don't care if you think you're brave, and I'm not doing this to be nice. I want to take you home because it's the right thing to do."_

_ She shook her head and pointed to the swing across the river._

_ "I'm meeting my brother there in half an hour. He'll take me home. I promise."_

_ Caspian tightened his hand and step closer to her. "I don't believe you. Now come along. I'll help you get on my horse."_

_ She didn't pull back, but she looked curiously at his ride. He could see a plan forming in her eyes as they narrowed._

_ "He's a beautiful animal, the finest I've ever seen." She shrugged his hand away and stepped to the colt's side. With a mischievous smirk, she raised her hand, and __**smack**__! _

_ One swift slap, and Destrier was sprinting off in the direction he and Caspian had just come from._

_ "You witch!" Caspian shouted. He shot her a dirty, venomous look, his mouth twisting into a snarl. "Now I'll never get home!"_

_ "Not if you aren't quick!" she giggled with a sing-song voice. She was right, which made her very clever and very scary._

_ "Tell me your name so that I can __**curse**__ you for the next seven lifetimes!" he demanded just as he began to run after his horse._

_ He did not see her face, but the funny accent and her sweet tone spoke volumes, and made his tummy flip in funny circles._

_ "It's Lucy!"_

_ Caspian grinned as he jumped over a large, protruding root._

_ "I'll see you this weekend, Lucy!"_

* * *

Caspian sighed wearily and stepped forwards. Closing his eyes, he leaned his forehead against the statue's.

"Oh Lucy, please let Drinian be wrong. Please don't be the one who's been robbing the tax wagons. Please have led a boring life, and please be waiting safely for me." He swallowed tensely.

"Please still love me."

* * *

Wow! Wow! WOW!

It's getting really close to Christmas! Can you believe it?

For my American readers, we still have Thanksgiving to celebrate. For my non-American readers... well... Turkey is awesome.

Since it's getting close to Christmas, that means it's time for a Christmas special! This time, you guys get all the control! You get to pick the universe, the location, the mood... everything! I'll set up a ballot for all of you.

Here it is!

* * *

1. Universe

a. Prince of Thieves  
b. Berlin After Dark  
C. Lucy and the Future King  
d. Standing Alone

2. Theme

a. Dinner  
b. Mistletoe  
c. Christmas Morning  
d. Argument

3. Mood

a. Tense  
b. Sexual  
c. Surprised  
d. Content

4. Location

a. Bedroom  
b. Bathroom  
c. Living Room  
d. Outdoors

5. Other Lead Pairing

a. George/Mary (Lucy's Parents)  
b. Peter/Gwen (oh my goodness!)  
c. Miraz/Prunapismia  
d. Glozelle/Prunapismia

* * *

Well folks, you know what to do.

Review!


	5. The Christmas Song

Until Caspian met Lucy, he never ate chestnuts. They were for the common people, as they were cheap and plentiful. It was distasteful for royalty to eat peasant food. So he'd been told by his mother. Then again, Constantina had never been anything but noble. She'd never worried about the cost of living or the need for thrift. Thus, Caspian grew up eating only the finest cuts of beef, the rarest species of fish, and vegetables that only grew under the careful hands of a master planter.

But Lucy and her siblings had to eat whatever they could, to keep from starving. The Pevensie brood rarely, if ever, ate any meat besides fish and hares. They knew too many talking beasts to eat anything but small, stupid animals. Once, Caspian brought to them a large hart he'd killed for a fine feast. Peter, who was already terrifying enough, dragged the deer barehanded into the heart of the woods, where bears and wolves could pick at it.

So Caspian learned to enjoy whatever treats they could offer, which is where he learned to appreciate chestnuts. Edmund mashed them with heavy cream and salt, Peter roasted chestnuts over an open fire, and Susan even used chopped chestnuts in place of rice. Most of the time, he was sick of chestnuts, unless Lucy was baking him chestnut bread; or if the two of them went chestnut picking together, like they were on December 24th.

It was a very cold, very snowy day, but because there was no wind, Lucy decided to go scavenging for some natural sweets. Caspian, being a gentleman in his mind, accompanied her. Destrier followed them, whose unhappy blusters could only be silenced with wild sumac leaves.

"Couldn't we just go back to Trufflehunter's tree and look for them there?" Caspian asked nervously as Lucy stomped through the snow ahead of him. His eyes were fixed on her ankles, which were guarded only by a thick pair of socks, as she wore delicate ghillies and not boots. Her slight feet left the daintiest of footprints.

"How many times have I told that there are no chestnuts by Trufflehunter's home?" Lucy asked before clucking her tongue disapprovingly. "Really, Caspian. You're supposed to smart." She stopped briefly beneath the snow heavy branches of a pine tree, inspecting each bough for something that was most likely silly and girly.

"Bears have been eating pinecones around her," she informed him sternly with a brief nod of her head. "Probably looking for pine seeds."

"Shouldn't we be turning around then? Bears could eat our faces off for a snack." Caspian trotted up to her side, and held his cloak over her head when a squirrel shook some snow loose as it scampered.

"All I have to do is ask and they'll leave us alone," she giggled as she elbowed his side gently. "The only thing we have to worry about are your soldiers using the trees for target practice."

Deeply offended, Caspian frowned and pulled his cloak back down around his body. "I know you love your trees and fields, Lucy, but humans need homes too. You cannot forget them, even if you are a nature girl."

"I'm not saying people shouldn't have homes with sturdy walls or doorways, but why must every house be bigger than the next? You force the land to adapt to you. I believe we should adjust to the land." She stepped away from him and pressed her hand against the pine tree's rough, brown trunk. "I just think there is greater beauty to be found in nature than there is in any oil painting, tapestry or sculpture. Give me the woods and the streams as my temple, thank you very much."

He looked up at that same tree. It was green, tall and brown. Asides from its clean and cool fragrance, it was just a tree in a forest full of identical trees. But it did provide shade and a home for Lucy's forest friends, so he couldn't call it boring.

"Mountains or rivers are mighty. A tree is just a henhouse for wild birds," Caspian scoffed when Lucy pressed her nose against the pine tree. Seeing her face pressed against the bark made him chuckle quickly, but his mirth disappeared when Lucy's shoulders tensed up.

"What is it?" Caspian whispered as she came to stand beside her. Lucy's eyes were fixed on some point just outside the tree line. He didn't know what she was looking at, but it wasn't picturesque, for her eyes were narrow and nervous. Initially he thought she was just teasing him, but then he heard laughter. It was the boisterous laugh of a Telmarine soldier, or Edmund's subtle snickering, but a woman (who _wasn't_ Susan).

"Who is that?" Lucy whispered worriedly as she pressed herself against Caspian's side. He did not answer, as he couldn't say he didn't know. He could only say he didn't know _for certain_.

It was probably impossible, but that laugh sounded exactly like Gwendolen. Gwen, however, had never ventured ten miles from her home. She would never come to the woods, unless under supreme duress.

And then another laugh was heard, and there was no disputing it's owner.

"What is Peter doing here?" Caspian breathed in confusion. He prodded Lucy's shoulder and pointed up at the pine. Lucy nodded, and waited for Caspian to take hold of the branch and hoist himself upwards. Then he pulled her up, and together they started climbing the pine together. They only had to climb about twenty feet to see the truth.

That blond head of hair was most definitely Peter's, and the dark-haired girl could only be Gwen. They were walking side by side, albeit with a space of five feet between them. Gwen was blushing and smiling, and Peter was laughing as he held something in his left hand.

"Is that rosemary?" Caspian asked while pointing at Peter's grip.

"It's mistletoe!" Lucy exclaimed with infectious delight and surprise.

"Oh," he replied. "Why is that significant?"

Lucy quickly smiled at him. "Where we come from, mistletoe is used to ensnare a lover."

"So…" Caspian said. "Men marry women by poisoning them?"

In that field, Peter kept stealing glances at Gwen, who was very shy under such attention. How they knew one another wasn't too difficult to comprehend. Gwen's home was often the starting place of Caspian's journey into the forest, so she clearly knew who he came to see. Being the niece of his aunt, who had dwarf blood in her veins, she was loyal and trustworthy. Though she had never seen Aslan, she still longed to meet the lion. So it wasn't completely out of the realms of possibility that somehow they had met.

"No, in England, whoever is caught beneath mistletoe has to kiss the person they're caught with."

Caspian glanced at Lucy.

"Mistletoe, huh?"


	6. Send in the Clowns

If you haven't noticed, all of the chapter titles for this story are song titles. You're all pretty astute, so I'm sure that you know this. Think of it as this story's playlist. However, usually, the song only applies to one scene.

Here's a list of the songs and exactly when they're being played

1. It's Only a Paper Moon (Ella Fitzgerald) - Just as Caspian is about to leave Narnia  
2. A Lack of Color (Death Cab for Cutie) - As the sun is setting over Susan's grave site  
3. By the Boab Tree (Ofelia of the Spirits) - When Glozelle is beginning to tell the story of the True Bride  
4. Titania (Harv) - When Caspian is walking through the Queen's Garden and finds Lucy's statue  
5. The Christmas Song (Mel Tormé and Bob Wells) - Throughout the whole chapter

And now, here is Send in the Clowns, as sung by Judy Collins. Can you tell me which scene it belongs to?

* * *

A broken heart falls more easily in love than a whole one. Although that heart's tumble into infatuation was small, for Glozelle, it was like diving in headfirst. He'd never bought into love at first sight. It was a silly concept. True love couldn't be established with a single glance. But after a night of conversation with an equally amazing and admirable woman, he reluctantly admitted that his affection for Lucy had bloomed much quicker than he anticipated. She was sweet, kind and collected; and in spite of her death sentence, she was endlessly worried about the people around her.

'_You don't have to stay with me, I know you're tired.'_

'_It's cold in here, and your cloak is thin.'_

'_I don't like beef. You should give it to the other prisoners.'_

But it was her heartrending honesty that drew his romantic interest.

"I'm afraid to die, Glozelle," she whispered as she walked over to the cell's small window. Outside the sun was yellow and bright.

"I promise it'll be quick," the general breathed from his seat on the ground. His eyes roved up and down her back. She was so small next to him, maybe five-foot-eight or so, but she was still shapely in her own right.

"I know it'll only hurt for a second, and I'm not afraid to _be_ dead. But dying just seems like it'll be agonizing."

Glozelle tried to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth away, but it just made his tongue dry out.

"Do you want me to be the one to do it? If you asked it of me, I'd swing the ax."

The smile she offered as she turned around was brave and wide. Her teeth were remarkably even and white. "You would never be able to live with yourself if you did. Let someone else be my murderer."

"Lucy," he begged as he rolled to his feet, his back cracking audibly. "Plead your innocence. You don't have to die. People like you are _rare_."

He crossed the room in three large steps, reaching out for her as soon as she was close. His hands fell on her shoulders, and he drew her to him, until he was holding her intimately. She gasped, and out of sheer surprise she wrapped her arms around his waist.

Staring down at her with those old brown eyes, he saw a very young woman with many years in front of her. And she was beginning to cry. Tears gathered in the corners of those big eyes, and her mouth was trembling. Glozelle could see that Lucy was terrified, but he knew she wouldn't say a word.

So, with one hand splayed on her back and the other cupping her head, General Glozelle kissed Lucy the criminal's forehead, and gave her the biggest hug he'd ever given anyone. He pressed her pale face into his throat and buried his nose in her hair. It smelled like lemons and roses.

Then she desperately hugged him back, clinging as tightly as she could. Through his leather armor, he could barely feel her, but somehow she warmed him straight through to his heart.

"Please tell me you'll miss me," she sniffled into his collar.

"I will miss you, Lucy," he whispered.

"I will miss you very much."

* * *

If it hadn't been for the fact that Drinian looked ridiculous with long hair, seeing him shaving his head would've had Caspian laughing hysterically on the floor.

"I have to admit, Drinian. You look pretty damn good right now. I think I might wrestle you to the ground and have my way with you. Passionately." Caspian said coyly from his bedroll. The sun was just coming up, and the island was cold and foggy. Somehow Drinian was up and already dressed though. The man had an internal clock more accurate than any sundial ever made.

"There were rat dropping in my dreadlocks. I didn't even want to wash them," Drinian growled as he attacked his scalp with a hunting knife. He was using a silver serving platter (stolen booty) as a mirror. There was no better example of an honest sailor or pirate.

"So…" Caspian drawled out slowly. "Do you think Lucy prefers silver or gold?"

"What does it matter?" Several ratty (no pun intended) dreadlocks fell to the ground, revealing shiny, unblemished skin. How that skin was just so dark was hard to understand. Then again, the skin under Caspian's former beard was dark.

"Because I want to know what kind of engagement ring she'd like. She always struck me as the silver type."

Drinian let out a quick, barking laugh. "You're _convinced_ she's still in love with you. It's almost been five years. What if she's moved onto another man?"

The smile on Caspian's face was self-satisfied and sure of itself.

"What other man could she possibly fall in love with? She lives with a bunch of animals in the middle of a forest." Caspian's fingers drummed on his belly, which was still hard and flat with lean muscle. His physique only made him that much more confident.

"You assume she was in love with you to begin with."

And that statement nearly destroyed his confidence. Caspian gasped and sprung straight up, sitting with his back straight as a ruler.

"You take that back," Caspian said snappishly. "I know she was in love with me."

"Caspian, you've been on a boat for nearly half a decade. She's been living in a tree. It's hard to be in love with someone you haven't seen in years. Even when you were there, you weren't in touch daily," Drinian said as he finished shaving off the last of his dreads. His scalp was just so shiny! It really was too bad he was being a dick, otherwise the two men would be laughing. "You came to see her whenever you had spare time." The captain turned around with a disapproving and wrinkled frown. He'd age more than Caspian realized.

"I don't want to be the one to say this, but I have to." Caspian gulped as Drinian walked towards him and then crouched down at his side. "You were a child. You didn't interact with any girls your own age. Susan was dull, whereas Lucy was fun and bubbly and always there when you needed her. She was your favorite playmate." He paused to sigh heavily. "Were you really in love with Lucy, or were you just _convinced_ that you were in love?"

That suggestion went straight through Caspian's heart like a white hot saber. A thousand negative responses flew through his mind. He loved Lucy! He loved her small feet, the muddy hems of her dresses, even her blind and naïve faith in human goodness. There was nothing about her he didn't love.

But the words just wouldn't come! They were frozen in his throat. Drinian, in less than a minute, had planted a vile seed of doubt in his mind.

"Even if she doesn't, even if I'm not," he whispered after a moment, "She's still in great danger. I know that Miraz was well aware of the Old Narnians and their queens, or at least he was deeply suspicious. He knew that my aunt… I mean my nanny, possibly had dwarf blood running through her. He was _certain_ that Dr. Cornelius was half dwarf. But with my father's death still fresh in the mind of the people, there was no way he could go after any of them."

"I don't think he's found any of them," Drinian countered. "That plumper who saw you naked mentioned nothing of the forests or of the Old Narnians. It appears _you_ have been the focus of gossip and spin for years. Stealing from the rich to give to the poor." Drinian clucked and shook his head. "Miraz loves his money. Of course such theft would consume his mind."

"Who could it be then?" Caspain questioned softly. "And why would they accuse me? The idea of it all sounds familiar, I just don't know why."

Suddenly a new voice joined their conversation. It was Rhince, the Dawn Treader's first mate. He stood some feet from them, hands crossed sheepishly behind his back. "Your highness? I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but…"

"It's alright, Rhince," Caspian said encouragingly. "What is it you have to say?"

"Well, sire, some of the men have started rowing supplies from the boat to the shore, and Pittencream even went to the one of the few fishing villages. In fact, it's the only fishing village. There aren't many people who even know how to use boats strong enough to navigate the waves. It just isn't - "

"We know that Telmarines are not sailors," Drinian quipped, cutting Rhince off before he continued wasting their time with obvious facts.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to ramble. But they told me that some of the women had seen a big black warhorse grazing in the valley. It had feathered hooves, a long and arched neck, and relatively small ears. One shrew said it was the most beautiful and muscular horse she'd ever seen. It still had a saddle on."

"Did she was what color that saddle was?" Drinian asked through gritted teeth, his annoyance quickly morphing into fear.

"All of its tack was black, embossed leather. Even the saddle blanket was black velvet."

Caspian stood straight up, unnoticing of his bare calves and feet. He stomped over to his gear, pulling out boots and a cape.

"Is it still there?!" he cried desperately as he clothed himself in less than three minutes. Black leather and velvet were extremely high-priced, especially considering it was for a horse and not a human. Saddles, bridles, breastplates… they were utilitarian and already expensive on their own. Every piece of equipment, every accessory was handmade for one horse, and one horse only. An ill fitting saddle or a wrongly sized bit could injure a horse forever.

Hence, no money could be wasted on fancy stirrups and lacquered leather; unless that horse was a pet, and not a farming tool. People who kept horses for pleasure were the wealthy and the royal. And the only member of the elite who exclusively used black leather on an already black horse was Prince Caspian, who lavished extreme attention on his favorite stallion, Destrier.

But, as much as it broke his heart, he left Destrier in the trustworthy hands of Lucy, who would only abandon the horse under extreme duress.

"Rhince," Drinian said firmly. "Send out Rynelf on our fastest charger. Tell him to look for Glenstorm. They've met before, he'll know who to look for. Then send Pittencream to Beruna. He's to find Gwendolen and her aunt, and to gather as many details about Miraz and the person parading as Caspian. You will go with him, but you'll scout the Castle of Caspian. Leave _now_!"

Rhince nodded solemnly and stormed away, rousing all the sailors to arms as soon as he was among them. Drinian sheathed his dagger and dug around for his crossbow. As soon as Caspian's boots were laced, he was flying to the closest rowboat, where Drinian joined him at the oars. Every other sea dog and deck hand was loading supplies into their own boats. Caspian could see their horses tethered on the shore. They were already agitated, tossing their manes and stomping their hooves.

Drinian's and Caspian's muscles had never been so exercised as they hauled and paddled their way to the shore. Caspian simply couldn't wait and jumped out of the boat into the shallows and ran to a bay mare, Doris. Even in his frantic state, he left the faster and stronger horses for those sailors who had long distances to ride.

Everything seemed to be happening at once, Caspian realized as he and Drinian got into the saddle. He'd planned on taking things slowly, maybe spending a week at the shore, so he could figure out a way to avoid Miraz and just whisk Lucy away to the Lone Islands. Now he had no time, and his fate had been chosen for him. If Lucy really was acting the fool and risking her life, then he would just have to rescue her. But if that were the case, it meant that he would also have to face Miraz, and he didn't know if he was ready for that.

Thankfully Drinian was at the reins, otherwise Caspian would've rode them into a tree. The ride was probably less than five miles, but to Caspian it felt like a lifetime. And sure enough, grazing majestically was horse with a massive, baroque frame and gleaming black fur. The bit in its mouth was silver as was most of the hardware. Rhince was right, the leather was embossed. Even across the plain Caspian recognized the swirling pattern of leaves and vines. He'd picked the pattern out himself.

"Destrier!" Drinian exclaimed softly. Caspian shook his head in disbelief.

"We're fucked."

* * *

Hello everybody! Three updates in less than two weeks. I feel accomplished. At least I think it's been less than two weeks...

Anyways, here's a note about Destrier. We don't really get a view of him in the movie. The most I've seen of him is, of course, from the movie, as well as one screenshot. And what did I gather?

The horse is black.

That's it.

But...! I have an ace in the hole. I did a little bit of research (Wikipedia), and found out that Destrier also refers to a specific kind of horse. It's not a breed, but rather the "best-known war horse of the medieval era." A destrier was, in tradition, a horse big and strong enough to carry an armor-clad soldier. These horses were often used in jousting tournaments. Destriers were highly prized and very expensive.

Some time ago, I spent a summer at a ranch where I worked with Friesian horses. As it turns out, Friesian horses are considered to have a destrier style physique. They're big, they're muscular, and guess what? They are BLACK. They have lustrous black coats and long, wavy manes. They're like something out of a fairytale.

So, it's not too much of a stretch to imagine that Caspian's Destrier was a baroque Friesian. For the purposes of _this _story, Destrier is a Friesian. They're beautiful horses, and the horse from the movie is very similar to them.

Go ahead and look up Friesian horses on Google images.

Also, REVIEW.


	7. The Butterfly

Though he referred to her as his aunt, Caspian's nurse was not related to him by blood. She was a servant, and had taken care of Caspian since his birth, first as a wet nurse, then as his nanny. If truth be told, she was more of a mother to the prince than Queen Constantina. She played with him, disciplined him, and told him stories that he would never forget. She was the one constant in his life, asides from Dr. Cornelius. If there was ever a woman that he revered more than Lucy or his Mama, it would be her.

Her niece though, Gwendolen, ran a close race with the other leading ladies of his life. Caspian did not have many trustworthy friends outside of the Pevensie children, so he valued his relationship with her. It wasn't proper for a royal to befriend a peasant, let alone a female, so they couldn't be playmates; but they were each other's confidants. He kept her secrets, and she kept his.

Now Gwen wasn't exceptionally beautiful, but neither was she plain. For a peasant she was quite the catch. Her skin was clear and perfectly olive without any scars or blemishes. She was lean, and had a long, graceful neck. Unlike most lay folk, she had enough money to keep her black curls smooth and shining, even though she kept them pulled back in a tight bun. Her real pride, however, was her face. It was surprisingly elegant; she had high cheekbones, a shapely mouth and a perfectly straight nose. Everyone focused on her eyes, and rightly so. They were spaced evenly and fringed with thick lashes. Unlike most Telmarines, who had solidly black eyes, hers were copper brown.

In spite of her decidedly good looks, Gwen didn't even consider herself tolerable. It came with the territory of being a servant to the royal family. Queen Constantina was magnificent, Prunapismia was striking, and Prince Caspian had inherited his father's handsomeness. They were the most beautiful family in all of Narnia. Gwen didn't even come close in terms of beauty. It wasn't self pity. It was just the truth.

So she couldn't understand why she was constantly mobbed by suitors, or reviled by her female neighbors in Beruna. She just thought they were mocking her for cruelty's sake. It was like they were playing a game at her expense, one that she would never understand. It was why Caspian was her only true friend. He was the only one who didn't care if she was pretty or ugly, because he was as desperate for company as she was.

Caspian trusted her so much that she was the only other person who knew of the Pevensie children. After all, she grew up hearing the same stories, and she believed in them as much as he did. And Caspian had never lied to her, so she didn't doubt him when he told him of the community living deep in the Great Woods. Just by his word alone, she grew to know the siblings, their quirks and character flaws. Gwen listened when Caspian complained of Edmund's occasional pithiness. She was the first to hear about Susan's shyness, and she certainly was there any time Caspian started waxing poetic about Lucy. But the one she wanted to learn of the most was the one Caspian rarely spoke of.

It wasn't that Caspian disliked Peter. The two boys were good friends. There just wasn't that much to say. Although he was only fourteen when he returned to Narnia, he was the primary caretaker of his family. He hunted for their food, helped his sisters with the sewing, settled disputes between the old Narnians… his time was precious, and he was always tired. It was why Caspian was closer to Lucy and Edmund. But occasionally the two boys had a few moments to go fishing or riding, and when they did, Caspian was more than happy to describe it to Gwen. Those stories were few and far between, but in her mind, Gwen had a clear picture of him in her mind.

He was a good man, serious and mature, but loving and dedicated to his family. In her aunt's stories, Peter was always depicted as handsome, a flaxen-haired youth on a white horse. He was Peter the Magnificent, High King of Narnia. With a sword in hand and a shield on his arm, he was Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion. Gwen knew that Peter could best Caspian or Miraz any day of the week, at anything for that matter. Whether in a dual or at a joust, Peter would always come out on top.

Peter was Gwen's prince charming, more of an ideal than an actual person. He represented all things good and noble. Peter was what Miraz and Caspian IX should've been. In her mind, she knew Peter like the back of her hand. Just hearing about him made her heart beat faster. As much as she imagined him, however, she was completely unprepared when she met him in person.

The festival of May Day lasted an entire week, with the biggest celebration being held on the eve of May Day. In the morning, there would be maypoles and flowers, but on the evening before, there were costumes and dancing. Everyone joined in the festivities, even painfully shy Gwen. At fifteen, she was still growing into her new body, which was thinner and more womanly than she was used to. Caspian, who had just turned sixteen, was having an easier time. He just packed on muscle and grew taller. He also had money though, so when he outgrew his clothes, new ones were made. Gwen had to deal with dresses that were too short and too tight in the chest (not that any of her male neighbors minded).

But on that night, it worked very well for her. One of the fun things about May Day was that it was a celebration of fertility, so women could dress like whores and get away with it. Not that she looked like a whore. She was just revealing more skin than she usually did. The dress was actually very pretty. It was robin's egg blue with a perfectly structured corset, which was unfortunately too small, but it gave her a nice hourglass figure. The skirt should've been full, but with the hoop skirt it was too short, so she took it out. Since her arms were getting longer, Gwen had to cut the sleeves off which would've been scandalous on any other day. Though she would never say it aloud, she had to admit that her shoulders were quite nice. And the corset lent her chest all sorts of charms.

Hers wasn't the most revealing and scandalous. There were fairies with bare thighs, topless men wearing deer antlers, and even a naked toddler or two. The sun had gone down, and the glow from the paper lanterns strung everywhere cast interesting shadows and created all sorts of dark corners. There were stalls with all sorts of street food, like pasties and mince pies. The faint strains of a fiddle could be heard alongside a concertina and a fife, and a few young men were Morris dancing with wooden sticks and handkerchiefs. But the majority of the crowd were laughing and running around like madmen.

Gwen weaved in between the revelers, just happy to see all the sights and costumes. She wanted to get to the maypole, where the May Queen would be announced. This year it looked like it would be one of her fellow servant girls, a twelve-year-old laundress who liked Gwen's feet for some reason. Children were strange that way.

The Festival really was a sight to behold. There were pastel ribbons strung everywhere, running from roof to roof, hanging off of clotheslines and pinned to doorways. The ground was littered with flower petals, in every color under the sun – reds, pinks, blues, yellows, purples, every color! Daisies and marigolds had been woven into ropes with ivy, and they were wrapped around every street lamp. Everywhere Gwen looked there was glitter in the windowpanes or bouquets made of lemons and limes. They world had never been so colorful or surreal.

All round her, people's faces were painted up like cats, clowns and prostitutes. Their hair were braided, coiffed, curled and teased. No one looked like themselves. She probably wouldn't even have recognized her own mother. Gwen's face was bare and her hair, as usual, was pulled back in a tight bun. She wanted to spend her money on food and maybe a mask. It wasn't a costume party without a mask.

Fate had something completely different in mind. Gwen was twenty paces away from a costumier's barrow, when all of a sudden, a man with a leather, blue fish mask instead of a head barreled towards her at full-tilt. He was wearing jerkin covered in metal scales glazed in iridescent blue paint, like the skin of a trout. It was an expensive costume, but still rather hideous. Gwen gasped as he jogged towards her, his arms laden with what looked like several bouquets and a set of fairy wings.

"Get away from me!" Gwen hissed as she backed away with a disgusted scowl. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to cover her breasts as best she could. The fish man pressed closer, laughing as he pushed away a lady dressed like a ewe. She heard that laugh before.

"Caspian?" she whispered incredulously as the man tipped the fish mask back just enough to show his face. Indeed, it was Caspian, with sweat on his brow and a smile on his face.

"Hello Gwen," Caspian chuckled. "Are you having a good time? That's a killer dress!"

"How did you get away from the castle?" Gwen looked around the courtyard they were in with a fearful frown. On the stage was a band, concertina and fife included; in the center was the maypole, bare and free of ribbons; and then there was a throng of partygoers, costumed and merry. But there were no guards or soldiers…

"Sheer dumb luck and soft soled shoes." Caspian smiled and pointed to his feet, which were clad in knee-high, navy blue stage boots. They were made of think lambskin, and indeed had soft soles.

"What are you doing here?" Gwen pressed further. "Shouldn't you be at the castle? Pruanpismia throws a masquerade ball every year."

With an amiable laugh, Caspian waved off her concerns with a single hand. "I wanted to take a friend out on the town."

She rolled her eyes. "You don't have any friends besides me and the Pevensie children."

"Yes," Caspian confirmed. "Lucy hasn't celebrated May Day in years, so I thought I'd bring her along."

Gwen gasped, her heart dropping into her stomach as her mouth fell open. A cold sweat broke out on her brow.

"Quee- Queen Lucy is here? Right now?" Gwen tucked her fingers in the collar of Caspian's shirt and jerked him forward roughly. "Queen Lucy the Valiant is in this very courtyard? Right now? Where is she?" Gwen's eyes darted from person to person, looking for a pale girl with a queenly presence. "Where, where, where?"

Caspian peered around, just as curious as she was. "She's around here some – ah, there she is!"

Holding her hands to her heart, Gwen bit down on her lower lip in excitement. It was finally happening! She was going to meet the finest queen Narnia had ever hosted! This was the moment she had waited her entire life for.

"Oh, Caspian, this is so… wow, she's small." Gwen's eyes widened as Queen Lucy tiptoed towards them. She wasn't even five-feet-tall. She, she was… small and slight, probably weighing less than one-hundred-stupid-pounds.

"Hello!" Lucy squeaked as she attached herself to Caspian's side. The dignified queen wasn't quite as dignified as Gwen expected. She was wearing a short pink dress with a fitted, pale pink corset studded in blue, white and gold crystals that swirled around like the tails of comets. The skirt fell to her knees in layers of flowing chiffon. On her feet were white satin gillies with the same crystals as her corset, and instead of satin laces, there were silver chains. Her hair was piled atop her hair in tight ringlets, but some were tangled and trying to escape their pins, as if someone had mussed them up.

The queen was pretty, very pretty indeed, but she couldn't have been more than twelve-years-old!

"Um, hello," Gwen whispered as she stared down at the much smaller girl. For a queen, she was positively miniature.

"That's a killer dress," Lucy giggled with a smile. "But you don't have a mask or jewelry! That simply won't do."

"Oh, I couldn't afford-," Gwen was cut off as Caspian practically assaulted her. In less than three seconds, she had a wreath on her head made of red roses and a three rows of pearls around her neck.

"The mask, Caspian, the mask!" Lucy giggled as she thrust something into Gwen's hands. Gwen looked down in confusion. Lucy had given her a white lace half-mask, and again, it had the same blue, white and gold crystals; but they were arranged like sparkling lashes around the mask's eyeholes.

"This really is too much," Gwen cooed honestly. Lucy's accessories were absolutely lovely, and since Gwen was bigger than the queen, they were actually understated. Gwen was all smiles as Caspian circled behind her, pinning the fairy wings he had been holding onto the back of her corset. They were like butterfly wings, made from sheer white chiffon stretched over a metal frame. There were yet more crystals, and they provided the stripes and circles usually found on monarchs.

"They look perfect on you," Caspian said distractedly as he clipped the last clasp in place. "Well, enjoy your night!" With one final, cheeky grin, he picked Lucy up bridal-style and darted away into the crowd. Gwen narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Why would Lucy willingly sacrifice a costume that was clearly more expensive than a herd of riding ponies? Her dress, while pretty, was incomplete without the wings and flower crown. Maybe she was going to buy a new costume and didn't want to throw away her old one? Perhaps they were going for a ride in the meadow?

"Lucy? Where the fuck are you?"

Or maybe they were ditching Lucy's one of a kind costume because a crazy man knew what she was wearing. Gwen dropped the mask like it was burning.

_'That little wretch!'_Gwen thought to herself as she spun around fearfully. _'He tricked me! I'm going to kill him!'_

With a horrified gasp, Gwen could only stand still as a statue as a tall man in a hooded cloak marched towards her. She couldn't see his face, but his stance was stiff and broad. Clearly, whoever he was, he was on the warpath – and she was standing in his way.

Since certain death was assured, she thanked her lucky stars that she had gotten at least gotten a glimpse of Queen Lucy. Sure, she was a rat fink and a midget, but at least Gwen could die knowing that the Pevensie family did exist.

"There you… aren't," the hooded man said, deflating instantly when he finally reached Gwen. His shoulders slumped forward and his jaw relaxed. Though she couldn't see much of his face, she could saw a disappointed scowl on his face as he eyed her from head to toe. He must've seen something he didn't like, because his mouth tightened unpleasantly.

"Where did you get this?" he question roughly as he tapped the roses on her head. Gwen recoiled, afraid he might strike her. The hooded man sighed.

"I'm not going to hit you. But where did you get these? Did you steal them?"

"No sir," Gwen whispered, her mouth dry. "Caspian and Lucy gave them to me." Gwen's eyes widened as she realized what she'd said. The hooded man hadn't mentioned any names to her directly, and Gwen had revealed both Caspian _and_ Lucy as acquaintances. She fully expected him to rant, rave and shake her like a rag doll. But he didn't. Instead, he stepped back a foot, his mouth turning down as he looked her over yet again. This time, he focused on her shoulders, face and hair.

"I know who you are," he intoned softly, with some wonder in his tone. "You're Gwen."

Gwen nodded. The hooded man stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"Come with me," he whispered, taking her gently by the hand as he pulled her towards a darkened alley. She followed wordlessly, surprised by the warmth of his palm. As he pulled her behind some empty barrows, Gwen watched the crowd carefully. There were still no guards, and no one was paying attention to them. Her neighbors probably thought the man was only _dressed_ like a bandit. It was a masked party after all, and he wasn't the only person parading around as a thief.

The darkness shielded them from any prying eyes, but without the glow of torches and candles, the moon cast an eerie blue glow on everything. Even the din of music and voices disappeared. Without the crowd pressing into her, Gwen felt naked and exposed. The hooded man cast a quick glance at the town square.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you," he told her quietly. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just frustrated."

He heaved a heavy sigh and pulled the hood of his cloak back. What an incredibly handsome man was hiding under all that wool! His face was square and stern, all sharp angles and straight planes. The hair on his head was as golden as the sun, and it hung around his jaw in long, loose waves. He had the beginnings of a beard, and cornflower blue eyes. There was only one person he could be.

"You're Peter, aren't you?" Gwen gasped, pressing her hands against her heart to keep it from beating out of her chest. "You're Lucy's brother."

He smiled without any mirth.

"I am. And from what Caspian's told me of you, I can trust that you'll keep this knowledge to yourself."

Gwen nodded and looked down at her feet, soundly shy around the High King. It seemed disrespectful to look him in the eye. He was a king in any case, and she was just a peasant wearing his sister's costume. What right did she have to look at him like a sibling (or in her case, a lover).

But Peter had other ideas. She didn't hear him move, but in a flash he was standing in front of her. He slipped his fingers under her chin and lifted her face so that she was looking at him.

"I can only thank you for keeping secrets, but when it comes to Lucy, tell me everything from here on out. She may be an adult in spirit, but unfortunately, she's back to being a child. I can't trust her to behave anymore, not with Caspian encouraging her to go off and raise hell."

Then he smiled, placed both of his hands on her shoulders, and quickly kissed her cheek. Gwen's cheeks erupted in a bright red flush.

"You are more than welcome to visits my sisters and me any time you like. Caspian knows the way. Now, good night Gwen."

And then, after pulling his hood back up, he padded away, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost. Gwen couldn't even speak, let alone move. Her heart was beating erratically like it couldn't be contained. The High King, the golden boy, kissed her. Without provocation! Right there, in the dark, with hundreds of Telmarines just a few steps beyond.

Gwen sat down on an upturned bucket, not trusting her knees to keep her standing. She didn't believe in love at first sight.

But love at first kiss seemed perfectly plausible.


	8. Tortured, Tangled Hearts

And the winner is... FantasticMisticalWonder, for her character Maeth!

* * *

'_Then buy her a dress,'_ Miraz had hissed to Glozelle. He wanted to remind his subjects that females weren't immune to his tyranny. Lucy execution would be the first of its kind. No woman had ever received the death sentence before, so it made sense for her to go out in style.

Lucy stood in front of the mirror, marveling over the quality of the clothes as they were layered over her. First came a silken chemise so white and sheer that she could clearly see the tips of her breasts and the tightness of her waist. It had puffy cap sleeves, and the scoop neck had a mint green drawstring. Then there was a peasant skirt, simple and swishy, made of rose pink cotton that cinched tightly at her waist. Yet it was the corset she wore over both pieces that took the cake. It was far too decorative to be worn as an undergarment, but stays and corsets were fashionable at the moment, so there was nothing scandalous about it. Like any good corset, it was stiff, but unlike most stays, it was flat-fronted and unexpectedly comfortable. This took a lot of pressure off of her waist and diaphragm, meaning she would be able to breathe and move around easily. Although it had a straight neckline, it still enhanced her bust without being vulgar. On the whole, she looked very springy and fresh, like a blushing carnation. But best of all was the seamstress attending to her.

"It's a good idea to be colorful when working in a milliner's shop," Gwen said as she tightened the back lacings of Lucy's corset. "But don't expect the work to be all ribbons and silk. You'll be expected to work the loom and do on-the-spot tailoring. I've made sure that you won't have to work with dye or mercury."

The home Gwendolen shared with her aunt was surprisingly well-kept. They lived near the city square, so it was a little townhouse, consisting of two stories. The second floor housed nothing more than two hope chests, the mirror they were standing in front of, and a large rope bed, big enough to comfortably hold two people. There were two mattresses on it. One was a firm futon, overfilled with uncombed wool. It was stiff and unyielding, meant for support. A softer, down-filled version was placed on top of it, which provided comfort. Then there the numerous blankets and bed sheets, ranging from soft, threadbare cotton to thick velvet. Narnia enjoyed varied seasons, but it wasn't the tropics. Even the Dog Days of Summer ended in cold nights.

Downstairs was where most of their time was spent. There was a parlor, which was little more than a pillowed bench and book shelf. Since Gwen's aunt was too frail and ill to climb the ladder upstairs anymore, a small but well-cushioned cot was arranged next to the fireplace for her. A loom, spinning wheel and cotton carders were kept in the corner, alongside a basket of finished yarn. Then there was a dining table, and a tiny but efficient kitchen. It had a counter, a cast iron, wood-burning stove, a pantry and a dry sink; but there was very little food. The only groceries kept for more than a day were sugar and spices, dried herbs and fruit, and jars of honey and jam. Butter was stored under the floor boards in an airtight clay pot where it was less likely to melt.

How Gwen and her aunt could afford such a living was a mystery, but Lucy suspected Caspian had much to do with it. He loved those two women, almost as much as he loved the Pevensies. Of course he would take care of them, as he had taken care of Lucy.

"Don't spend too much time on your hair, and _never_ wear it in more than one style, unless it's some special occasion," she continued, briefly touching the milkmaid braids she had woven Lucy's hair into. "You are not rich, and if you keep it plaited tight enough, you'll be able to go three days without washing it."

Lucy nodded vigorously, tightening the ribbons holding her hairstyle in place. Since she had no skill in hair styling, milkmaid braids were her best option. They were nothing more than woven pigtails wrapped around her head like some sort of crown.

"Never let your hair down at work, and remember, you're a woman. Don't say anything too intelligent, and for goodness's sake, never argue. This is still a man's world."

Gwen finished up with Lucy's corset, tying the thick green cord into a pretty bow at the small of her back. The older girl was dressed much more modestly. She still worked at the palace, so she wore the traditional uniform – a back-laced, floor length gown with fitted sleeves that naturally followed the contours of her body. It was made of yellow muslin, and worn under a red, shorter apron dress that fell right around her knees. The apron was made of a much heavier linen so that her dress wouldn't stain in the kitchens. Since she was more than just a simple maid, Gwen had to cover her hair with a tight-fitting wimple and an oval veil. Both were made of soft white silk.

"My shift ends close to midnight, but don't worry about anyone bothering you. You're old news now," Gwen said hurriedly as she darted to one of the hope chests. Lucy's eyes were still on the mirror. It was old and cloudy, nothing like the mirrors lining the walls of Cair Paravel; and in it she did not see herself, or the pretty clothes Gwen was lending her. The only thing she saw were the angry burns on either wrist, and her kiss bruised mouth. The marks of her wrist came courtesy of some rope; but the rosy shade of her lips was all Caspian's doing.

* * *

_It was the morning of her execution. Glozelle had stayed with her the whole of the night, making sure that the last few moments of her life passed in contentment. He held her, stroked her hair, and told her that he'd miss her. It was the only declaration of love he could give her without making a fool of himself._

_Then Miraz had to come in with that cruel sneer, a plain white dress in his hands. Without a word, he tossed it at Lucy. She caught it without a word or a tear. There was no way she would give Miraz the satisfaction of seeing her weep. Glozelle admired her bravery, her hard-edged, steely determination. What a bride she would've been! And what a husband he would've been to her._

"_General Glozelle," Miraz drawled casually. "You will keep guard on the podium. I've gallows and a chopping block set up. I couldn't decide between the two. Maybe we'll hang her first and cut her head off just for fun."_

_Glozelle schooled his expression into an emotionless mask, but his eyes were dark as Miraz's soul._

"_Yes sir."_

_The king spun on his heel, his cloak swishing as he slammed the door shut. Glozelle stared at the lock for several moments. It remained unturned, a clear order._

"_I have to go," Glozelle whispered, his voice heavy with regret. "I'll send in a pitcher of warm water, so you can wash your face."_

"_Thank you," Lucy whispered. Her voice did not tremble with fear or weariness. It was firm with bravery and resignation. Glozelle's heart split a little more, but he did not look back as he left the cell, not even when he locked the door._

_Lucy set to work the moment the lock clicked into place. She didn't waste time crying or banging her fists against the wall. By that point, with a night of doubtful thoughts under her belt, she felt oddly ready and at peace. With each story Glozelle distracted her with, her resolve grew harder. She'd counted up the cost, and knew the sacrifice. At first she wished there was a way to take the bitter cup away from her, for she didn't want to taste its poison._

_But then, the mere thought of having Glozelle mourn lifted her weary heart. The man should've been her sworn enemy, but he promised to bury her. Lucy couldn't ask for more._

_As she mechanically pulled the silken dress over her cold, nude body, she thought of everything she'd lost. Peter and Edmund were long gone, dead or chasing after Aslan. Either way, they'd abandoned her. Caspian left soon after, without warning or a proper goodbye. Then Susan died, which was the most horrible thing Lucy had ever witnessed. Seeing her excruciatingly beautiful sister wither away to nothing but a sickly pale corpse was just so painful._

_When Susan died, she was the only one left; and yet it never occurred to her that she was going out of her mind with grief – that maybe she was just suicidal, and not as brave as she thought._

_Before she could dwell on the past and her own mental state, Glozelle came sweeping into the room, his hands holding a steaming bowl of water, with one towel slung over his left forearm._

"_I couldn't find any soap, but the water's warm."_

_Lucy smiled and stepped forward, carefully holding the dress's skirt up. It was just a few inches too long for her thin frame._

"_Thank you," she intoned gently, honestly as she dipped her hands into the water. She didn't see the way Glozelle stared in wonder as she splashed her face, washing away layers of dirt and muck. As the water in the bowl darkened, her skin lightened. Underneath all that mud and sweat, she was pale and perfect, at least in the eyes of her captor. Her lips were so pink and kissable that there was no way she could ever be mistaken for a boy… or even a young girl, she was so decidedly womanly._

"_How old are you?" Glozelle asked as she patted her face dry. The question had Lucy pausing for a considerable time._

_How old was she? Over the years she'd lost all concept time, having been jerked around by it so much. She was a child when she first came to Narnia, barely eight-years-old. She was twenty-three when she stumbled back to England in the body of a little girl. Then she came __back__, a woman trapped in a nine-year-old body. That's when she met Caspian, who was thirteen. They spent four years together, the best of friends. And then he left, just as she was growing up again. It had been four years since she'd seen him. That meant she'd been in Narnia for seven years this time around. _

_So, how old was she? In spirit, she was very much a woman, pushing thirty even. But her body was young, maybe…?_

"_I'm seventeen." Yes, seventeen. It seemed like a good, suitable number to give to Glozelle._

"_You should be married. Most women marry when they turn fifteen."_

'_Most women haven't traveled across the universe,' she thought to herself mirthlessly. _

"_Why didn't you ever marry?" he pressed on. "I'm sure there must've been someone."_

_Lucy's mouth twisted bitterly._

"_He left me," she said without any inflection of any kind. She heard the shifting of armor and leather, and before she knew it, Glozelle was standing before her, tall, dark and imposing._

_But the press of his mouth against hers was as light and warm as the first days of spring._

_Then he was gone._

* * *

_Why did he kiss her? Why? It didn't change anything. It didn't make her innocent. The only thing it did was wound his heart even more. His affection for her was completely wrong. She was already dead, and he would never save her, not in a million years._

_After all, what kind of husband would haul his wife roughly by her elbow onto a rickety theater, where a hooded executioner was standing next to a chopping block?_

_The crowd was dead silent. They'd been cheering and hollering, clamoring for the blood of the criminal. But when the door of the barred carriage opened, revealing a thin and frightened young girl, their voices failed them. They cleared a wide berth for the lady in white. Some of the older women even had to dab the tears off their cheeks._

_They knew what Glozelle knew – that Lucy was innocent, that she wasn't the Night Watchman, and that Miraz was nothing more than a demon. He sat on his throne behind the stage, on a raised platform where he could watch the spectacle, as well as his subjects' reactions. Prunapismia sat to his left, her lips curled in a delicate sneer. All of the lords were there – Lord Arlian, Lord Belisar, all of them. They were decidedly less than pleased, if their apathetic expressions were anything to go by._

_Most alarmingly, Lord Sopespian sat at Miraz's right hand, and he was whispering into the king's ear. If there was one man more dangerous than Miraz, it was Sopespian. He was both snake and snake charmer. His tongue was solid silver, slithering past a deceptively friendly smile._

_And there, in the middle of the stage, was a chopping block. The executioner stood next to it, a black hood pulled over his face. He rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands nervously twisting around the hilt of his axe. Whoever the man was, he certainly didn't look like an executioner. He wasn't beefy or broad enough, and the axe he carried was barely big enough to chop would. It would take several swings to take Lucy's head off…_

_Glozelle snarled at the executioner, his arm sliding protectively around Lucy's waist. The axe-wielding contract killer threw his shoulder back and planted his feet firmly on the ground. His hands tightened impatiently around the handle of the ax._

_Lucy patted the hand curved over her belly, smiling up at Glozelle before taking the hand of the guard awaiting her. He was middle-aged, dark-skinned and black-haired, like most of Miraz's soldiers. But he seemed so familiar… There was something about his hooked nose and dimpled chin, something she'd seen before._

_Well, familiar or not, he was shaking uncontrollably, his hand as wet and warm as a swamp. He practically scampered away, disappearing around a corner as soon as possible – leaving her alone with the executioner. She turned wide and frightened eyes to the man who'd been hired to kill her. He wasn't that much taller than her, or broader for that matter. He had the quick, lean build of an marathon runner._

_She tentatively smiled, her mouth trembling. For some reason, she just couldn't get excited about her death. The executioner let out a loud, heavy breath, his shoulder's slumping forward. Lucy lowered her eyes to the bloody wooden block, wincing as a gloved hand brushed her hair away from her shoulders. Maybe it was just her imagination, but the weight of the fingertips lingering on the back of her neck were comforting, as if she'd felt them before._

_A new guard, this one sneering cruelly at her, pushed her down to her knees. After tying her hands in the small of her back with some rope, he slammed his booted foot between her shoulder blades, shoving her down onto the chopping block. Her throat was nearly pinched shut from the weight of the blow, knocking the breath clear out of her lungs. As she struggled to breathe, Lucy heard the crier shout out the charges against her._

"_As ordered by King Miraz, champion and ruler of Narnia, Lucina of Beruna is hereby convicted of robbery, tax evasion, and treason!"_

_Lucina? Really? That's what they thought Lucy was short for? And tax evasion?_

'_I suppose stealing your taxes back counts as tax evasion.'_

"_As ordered by the king and his council, she will be executed by way of beheading."_

"_Don't lose your head!" Miraz called out quickly. No one laughed._

"_If there is anyone who seeks to refute the claims of the king," the crier continued. "Speak now or forever hold your peace."_

_Lucy's eyes roved over the scrubbed wood of the stage, tracing out idle patterns in the old oak floor. What was taking them so long? How much more time would be wasted with Miraz's twisted game of cat and mouse?_

_And then something odd happened. She heard the sharp whistle of air rushing past steel, and then the ropes around her wrists fell to the ground in pieces. There was a rush of swinging fabric that had the entire crowd gasping._

"_Blaming an innocent girl for my crimes? Really, Uncle – you've outdone yourself!"_

_Lucy's heart stopped in her chest at the achingly familiar voice ghosting above her. It couldn't be!_

"_I, Prince Caspian, the true heir to the throne of Narnia, refute the king's accusations, accepting full blame for, how did you put it? Oh yes. Tax evasion."_

_Could it?_

_The floorboards beneath rumbled and vibrated as armor-clad soldiers rushed the stage. They were held off by… someone, she really couldn't tell. All around her, a battle raged, yet she couldn't lift her eyes. Her heart would shatter if __he__weren't there._

_Just to her left, a body dropped. It was one of Miraz's soldiers – there was an arrow in his heart._

"_Milady," a voice whispered sweetly as she was pulled up by her hands. Lucy closed her eyes, hoping against hope that she was wrong, that she was right, that he was there, that he was dead._

"_Milady, I must apologize for the king's abhorrent behavior, as well as my late entrance. But," warm leather slid over her lower lip, "I __did__ save you, so I think a reward is more than in order."_

_Feeling as if she would vomit, Lucy fearfully opened her eyes, nearly sobbing at the sight before her._

"_Caspian," she breathed. Her prince, her hero, her one true love smiled at her, so young and so handsome. He'd barely aged at all._

_His dark gaze swept over her older, curvier frame appreciatively before returning to her eyes. All around them, his sailors battled Miraz's soldiers, but she barely noticed._

"_Forgive me, milady, but I think I am owed this." With a roguish grin, he pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and without even blinking, his mouth swept over hers. The lips covering hers were warm and insistent, his tongue sweeping into her mouth briefly as one brazen hand pulled her against his chest._

_And then he was gone, running across the stage only to jump off. A horse blustered unhappily, and much like he did when they were children, Caspian rode off into the sunset, Destrier's large hooves nearly taking flight in their speed._

_She watched in a daze as the black warhorse disappeared into the forest. Someone jogged up to her, wrapping strong, mailed arms around her waist. She was drawn back against an armored chest, and bodily dragged away from the stage and down the stairs._

"_Lucy!" Glozelle cried as he spun her in his arms. His face was stern and exultant at the same time. "Lucy, are you alright?"_

_Amidst the cries of the crowed, professing 'Lucina's' innocence, Lucy could barely hear the old general's question. Her mouth still burned, and before she knew it, she was unconscious._

* * *

"You kissed her! You bloody idiot! Why did you fucking kiss her?"

Drinian was positively irate, spittle flying from his mouth as he ranted and raved. He waved his arms about wildly, shouting at a man who didn't even hear him.

Yes, he'd posed as the executioner to save Lucy. Yes, he'd kissed her. But Drinian was the one who killed one of Miraz's guards. Rhince was the one who walked her up to the chopping block. All of his men were guilty of treason, tax evasion and thievery. They'd had no choice but to stage a rescue. She would've died!

"We're dead. We're all dead. Lucy too. You're _soooo_ lucky Glozelle pulled her away when he did; otherwise he would've put a knife in your gullet."

Caspian rolled his eyes. "We made it back to the island just fine. Rynelf was smart and released all their horses. They have no idea where we are. And it's been days!"

Drinian glared at Caspian, who was lounging idly on his bedroll. After a thunderous ride, they were back at Cair Paravel. Destrier had been head-butting and love nipping his rider nonstop, his broad nose buried in Caspian's hair. Caspian, in turn, lavished loving attention on his beloved steed, feeding him carrots and sugar until the horse would burst. They really were best friends, but as much as Caspian loved the stallion, his mind was… well, focused on two 'well-rounded' aspects of Lucy's personality.

By all the stars in heaven, she was magnificent! How she had grown, how she had filled out. The statue of her was a cheap and poor imitation. She was more than his dreams could bear.

Her cheeks were thinner, her lips were pinker, and she'd gained weight in all the right places. She was wondrously pale, like pearls and porcelain, but there were several delightful freckles on her nose. Her lashes were so thick he'd never be able to count them. In truth, her mouth tasted horrible, but she'd been in a cell all night long. Even then, the texture of her tongue and teeth had nearly been his undoing.

Holding her had been bliss and agony. Kissing her had been a terrible and wonderful idea. Letting her go was painful and smart. But seeing Glozelle hold her… He had no conflicting emotions about that.

Watching the general carelessly sling his arm around Lucy's hourglass waist, so casually like a lover would, had driven him to nearly murderous heights. Glozelle was one of Miraz's mindless drones. How could he possibly know Lucy well enough to hold her? For that matter, how could he possibly know her and be willing to let her die?

Lucy was faithful. That much Caspian believed. And her surprise at being kissed proved that it was new to her. But Glozelle… he'd held her hand, embraced her, looked at her with love and longing.

"You've sentenced us all to the gallows!" Drinian continued, but Caspian's mind was busy formulating plans.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would go see her, kiss her, get the truth and kiss her again.

"Goodnight, Drinian."

"Don't you even think of sleeping!"

* * *

Miraz didn't like getting his hands dirty. He had an army on hand to do that. But sometimes, a man needed to sign his soul away in person, away from prying eyes.

Finans Isle was a seedy inn just outside of Beruna. It was just some mud walls with a thatch roof and stone chimney, but every night, its pub and rooms were full. There were ugly prostitutes selling their wares, black market vendors selling everything from potions to human remains, and bounty hunters galore. It was the place to find a murderer for hire.

No one recognized the king. The black cloak he was wearing ensured that. Besides, everyone was wearing a black cloak. He fit right in. He dismounted his horse, a featureless grey gelding, and tied up the beast at the barn. There were goats, ponies, chickens, and several horses – one being a bony, black mare with no shoes and split hooves. She looked sickly, and there was a scar slashed angrily over her right eye, turning what should've been a brown iris orange. But as poorly as she seemed, he knew her to be frightfully fast.

"Hello, Siriso," Miraz seethed as the horse kicked one of her hind legs at him. He barely avoided losing his kneecap.

Sliding in the hole that they used instead of a door, Miraz carefully sidestepped the drunken, writhing brawl of hookers and hit men. He pulled back the curtain on the other side of the bar that led to the private rooms. It was easy enough to find the room he was looking for. The stench was unmistakable.

Without knocking, he shoved in the door, closing it behind him as quickly and quietly as possible. The room was Spartan. There was a dry sink, a saddlebag, and bed made out of sticks to thin for firewood. Perched on one of the posts was a Great Black Hawk, a bird rare in Narnia. It preferred the tropics, but here it was, staring him down with evil intent.

"Hasn't anyone told you it's rude to enter a room without knocking?" a raspy, feminine voice asked him tiredly. Miraz's dark eyes swiveled to the room's only occupant.

It was a thin, skeletal woman, every inch of her pale skin tattooed with swirling vines, save for her face. Once, she may have been beautiful, but now, her skin clung too tightly to her cheeks and chin. She had pleasantly bee-stung lips, but they were bruised or stained with wine.

"Hello Maeth. I see you've degenerated even further. What do you have against looking human?"

"Speak before I ram your words down your throat."

Miraz covered his nose at the smell emanating from that ghost of a woman. It wasn't her body that stunk. It was her hair – she was dying it red, which was a hard color to achieve without money or patience. In one hand, she held a large oyster filled with what had to be carmine. The other was busy finger combing the foul concoction through stick-straight, waist length locks.

"I want you to find and kill my nephew. I will give you one hundred gold pieces."

The stench of the sticky red paste coating Maeth's fingers was choking Miraz, but she didn't seem to notice it as she combed the dye through her hair, plucking and pulling at her scalp. Whatever was in the noxious concoction effectively covered her dark roots, but the color was shockingly unnatural. The only other time he'd seen such a deep shade of red against such pale skin was when pagan priests slit the throat of a large bull over a young virgin. As the cattle's anguished lowing came to a stop, blood poured over the maiden's face, arms and chest; and she welcomed the warm deluge, villainous delight twisting her beautiful face into something purely demonic. The scene was so horrifying that the girl and the priests were executed, under the pretense that they had stolen the bull from the king's herd. No mention of the disgusting ritual was made known, out of fear that maybe, just maybe, such a sacrifice was actually effective.

"Will you do it?" Miraz hissed through his clenched teeth, his eyes roving over her swayed back. Stray drops of colorant dripped down onto her tattoos, as if the vines were blossoming like rose bushes.

"You're asking me to kill the crown prince, who may or may not be in Narnia, who may or may not already be dead? And the most you offer is a hundred gold pieces? My boots cost more than that."

"We all know that you never buy anything with your wages, although I have no idea where you store all your riches." Miraz's eyes turned to that Great Black Hawk (Sedah, he remembered) perched on her bed post. It had been watching him the whole time, protecting its master at all cost. The bird of prey was nearly two feet long, more than capable of scratching his eyes out at the drop of a hat. It had that horse of her for partner. While the black mare was efficient, Destrier was still more impressive. Then again, Caspian's horse was built to carry a suit of armor over long distance. Siriso was lighter, thinner and quicker, much like her master. As startling as she was, she was still an ordinary horse. And at one point, Maeth had been an ordinary woman.

"I'll bring him to you dead for a thousand gold pieces, alive for two thousand. And no matter what, I get Destrier."

Miraz's brows knitted in confusion.

"Why the horse? I don't care for the beast, but you seem more suited to Siriso. She's fast, and blends in... somewhat."

Maeth was quiet as she finished pulling the dye through her hair. As she piled the soaked locks atop her head, she looked over her shoulder with a positively devious smile on her face.

"Siriso is lonely, and there's no better stud than the prince's war horse. Besides, he means so much to Caspian. If you want to strike at his heart, take away his best friend."

Miraz laughed, but in his chest, his heart nearly stopped beating. Losing Destrier would cripple Caspian, but losing that woman, Lucy, would kill him completely.

"For three thousand gold sovereigns, Caspian will be brought to me dead or alive; and if that doesn't work, I want you to torture and murder the girl. Once you've done that, you will put her body on display, flayed and quartered."

"What girl?" Maeth cooed in a sing-song voice. "Susan? I believe she's already dead."

"The younger one. She lives with Gwendolen, my wife's chamber maid."

Miraz and Maeth stared each other down, silence sweeping over the room as they locked gazes. Even Sedah was silent. And then...

"Consider it done."

* * *

Yeah, I know this chapter is... well, awkward to say the least. But I rarely write action scenes. I'm terrible at them. I prefer kisses and cuddling.

Some of you are probably really confused right now. Allow me to clear things up.

On the day of Lucy's execution, Caspian incapacitated the executioner, stole his hooded cloak and posed as him. After putting on a brief show, he took off his hood and announced that Lucy was innocent because he was the real thief. According to the law, that made Lucy an innocent woman.

Caspian flees successfully, while Gwen takes Lucy in, pretending that they're cousins. Glozelle, realizing that his people have always longed for Caspian, seeks out his favorite assassin, Maeth. He hires her, and the rest is history.

Whew!

Review!


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